


Leveilleur

by HawkSong



Series: Finding Home [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 26,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25664941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawkSong/pseuds/HawkSong
Summary: A collection of short, not necessarily sequential pieces showing Alphinaud's experiences in Eorzea.This work links very closely with "Aren't You Cold?" and will involve Berylla Seahawk from that fic.Any time an entry refers to specific events within AYC I will include the chapter number and a link.
Series: Finding Home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1853455
Comments: 23
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of short, not necessarily sequential pieces showing Alphinaud's experiences in Eorzea.  
> This work links very closely with "Aren't You Cold?" and will involve Berylla Seahawk from that fic.  
> Any time an entry refers to specific events within AYC I will include the chapter number and a link.

Alphinaud Leveilleur was not in a very festive mood.

Today, he was sixteen years of age.

In a handful of weeks, he and his twin sister Alisaie would graduate from the Studium, the youngest ever to receive that honor.

They would then begin preparations for the journey they had been working towards for the last three years.

They argued for it a great deal – with their peers, with their father, and with their mother most of all. At last they had won over Lady Leveilleur; without her blessing they could not even find berths on a common vessel. A somewhat unfortunate side effect of being directly related to the most powerful shipping magnate in Sharlayan...

Well. They had prevailed. They would leave Sharlayan for battered, war torn Eorzea – just as their grandfather Louisoix had done.

But first, they had to endure these final days. Alphinaud sighed.

This day in particular was proving most trying, which was why he was tucked into a corner conveniently concealed by a large potted fig. Hiding, at his own birthday party.

He was weary of making polite, empty conversation with the guests – all of whom were very important figures in Sharlayan society, and no particular acquaintances of his, much less _friends_. He was tired of dodging the many young ladies who kept looking for him, with a gleam in their eyes – hunters on the scent of their prey.

From here, he could see the dance floor, and his sister in her favorite scarlet gown. He envied Alisaie just a little. She adored dancing, and she was enjoying herself greatly down there. She relinquished one partner, and did not even step off the floor before another man – or two – had bowed in request of a dance with her.

Alas. Alphinaud was competent enough at dancing, but he was obliged to be the one doing the requesting. And not one of the women here, of any age, would read such a request as anything but an expression of interest. He did not wish to give such an impression, for he was unequivocally not interested. Even the most beautiful among them had no power to make his heart flutter – not when he knew the truth behind the painted smiles.

Perhaps he might find some paragon among women on foreign shores? He shook his head. Such thoughts were foolish speculation at best. He had specific goals in going to Eorzea, and he _would_ accomplish them before he allowed himself to be distracted.

The grand clock in the main hall chimed the hour, and he breathed a small sigh of relief. He made his way to the dance floor with alacrity, and met Alisaie at the north side of it just in time to take up two glasses of champagne and hand one to her. The dance floor emptied, and across from them stood their father.

Lord Leveilleur had aged well, so they said, and certainly his famed speaking voice had lost not one jot of its vigor. He gave his speech – one that was not identical every year, but did follow the same general theme. The crowd applauded, as always, and the three of them toasted and drank the champagne. Then, with a bow, he led his sister onto the dance floor for their single “performance” of the evening. They had done this for four years now, ever since Alisaie had won the epic battle of wills with Lady Leveilleur over what sorts of duties were expected of them at gatherings like these. The song was the same, and they both knew the steps of the dance so well they could do them blindfolded. But for all the rehearsed familiarity of it, he wasn't bored; it was pleasant. Alisaie was all smiles, and he caught some of her happiness. Soon they would be free of this place, free of obligations neither of them wished to uphold any longer.

He smiled at his sister as they finished their dance, and gratefully escaped the party to head to his own chambers.

Some hours later, there was a light tap on his door.

Alphinaud looked up from his book, blinking a little as he reoriented himself. He glanced at the water-clock and nodded to himself. Almost two in the morning. Only Alisaie would be tapping on his door at this hour.

He slipped a ribbon into his book to mark his place, and set it aside. Then, he got up from his reading chair and padded over to the door. He had long since changed from his party clothes into the comfortable old things he wore when no one was going to see him.

He opened the door, and let her in without a word.

She slipped inside, and the moment the door was shut, her arms were around his waist.

“A bad one, this time?” he whispered.

“Horrible. It was about G-Grandfather...”

He hugged her as she began to cry, and slowly got her over to the side of the bed. Even their parents would be shocked to see this side of his prickly twin. Not that he would ever breathe a word of her occasional night terrors to _anyone_. Long used to the rituals and habits these nights required, he helped her sit on the bed, then got her to lie down. With a mutter he summoned up Noir, his obsidian carbuncle. The creature cooed at Alisaie, immediately laying down beside her, wriggling its way into her arms as she slowly let go of Alphinaud's waist.

Her sobs were largely silent, but her entire body shook with them. He got up from the bed, and arranged the things she would need on the night-stand: a glass of water, and the little blue blown-glass phial, and a pair of peppermint pastilles. She likely would need the tincture of chamomile and valerian, but the medicine was acrid even to his own palate. The pastilles would help.

She had all these things in her own room, of course. She was perfectly capable of medicating herself and going back to bed, and had done. But they were not at the dormitories of the Studium. She'd rather be with him, for now, and he was willing to indulge her.

She was only the most important person in his entire life, after all.

He put out the lights around the room and climbed into bed, his legs under the comforter and pillows tucked behind his back. Alisaie turned over, and lay her head on his lap. Noir made a soft cheep of complaint as it stamped about the blankets. The carbuncle was his latest attempt in developing new and better variations on the basic construct; it was still small and not at all suited to combat. But for now, the cat-sized creature was invaluable, reassuring Alisaie as it did.

Once Alisaie had settled again, Noir insinuated itself back into her arms, trilling as she stroked its ears. “Good boy,” she whispered to it, sniffling, before succumbing to another round of those silent, racking sobs. Alphinaud combed his fingers through her hair, soothing, patiently waiting out the storm of tears.

This was hardly new. She had suffered from nightmares, like any child, but when their grandfather Louisoix had departed for Eorzea, simple bad dreams turned into something much worse. They had still shared a suite then, a single door separating them – a door that stayed open most of the time. He still remembered, sharply, the first time he had woken to hear her screaming.

He hoped he never had to see her like that again, eyes wide open and yet not seeing, body paralyzed by terror. He had no magic then, no carbuncle, no medicine. Only himself and his arms, and he had held her and begged her to wake up and wept from his fear for her.

He pushed the memory back. All in all, a most unpleasant night for both of them. And he had worked on solutions from then on.

Always, the worst terrors seemed built around their grandfather. At first, it had been a natural enough anxiety. After all, she had been the one to cling and cry when Louisoix left. But after his death – anxiety became something else altogether, a clutching panic at any prospect of being alone.

Perhaps it was those fears, those dreams, that had helped fuel her intense focus on physical training. Not that she was any slouch in the sorts of learning he had focused on: she could weave a spell as well as he could. But where he was wont to spend entire nights reading – aetheric theory usually, but also the occasional play or book of poetry – Alisaie was studying battle magics, tactics, and training her body into a slim weapon all its own.

She was at the top of her classes in fencing, swimming, really any athletic pursuit she turned her mind to mastering. Before they had begun at the Studium, she had studied ballet, and excelled there as well. She played harp, piano, and lute with great skill – at the insistence of their mother.

He half smiled as he looked down at her, at how her long fingers buried themselves in Noir's fur. Lady Leveilleur would never be satisfied with her daughter, he feared. Nor with himself.

The thought still carried a sting for him, though he had long since given up on meeting his mother's impossible standards. Alisaie – _she_ had been the one to stand up for him, and herself, in that so-memorable shouting match. A Starlight Festival to remember, that had been. He hadn't known until then just what sort of language Alisaie had picked up from her warrior friends.

She had calmed again, and shifted her head in his lap a little. “And what,” she asked, her voice raspy, “are you smirking about?”

“Remembering,” he answered easily. “Do you feel ready for a bit of medicine, dear sister?”

She grunted a little. “Remembering what, pray tell?”

“Your last Festival performance,” he chuckled, and was relieved to see her shoulders shake in a brief, quiet laugh as well. It was never a sure thing that he could talk her out of the coils of nightmare. Sometimes trying made it all worse.

“He was on fire,” she murmured.

Alphinaud's hand on her hair stilled. She hadn't tried to tell him the contents of her dreams for three years.

“There was blue fire everywhere,” she continued. “And shapes – dragons, I think. There were so many. And his eyes were red and he was burning. He was in the fire – no, he _was_ the fire. I don't understand why I keep seeing that. He's _dead_ , Alphinaud. Why do I still dream of him so?”

“I do not know the answer to that,” he sighed. “All I know is that you suffer, and all I can do is help you, as best I am able. I am no diviner of dreams, no reader of souls, Alisaie.”

“As if I would listen to any of those quacks calling themselves such,” she snorted.

“Just so. Come,” he patted her shoulder, “sit up, drink some water at least. You know you need to.”

She grunted again, a most un-lady-like curse slipping from her lips, but she obeyed him, sitting up just enough to take a sip of the water. She set the glass down, and then lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Noir cheeped again, and she absently stroked its ears.

“I'm too old for this nonsense. Little children have nightmares and need soothing.”

“You know better.” He leaned his shoulder against hers, and she turned her head to rest her forehead against his. “One day, I am certain, your nightmares will be only things of the past.”

She sighed, and leaned on him for a moment more, her eyes closed. Alphinaud's eyes shut as well, knowing that she would not lean on his strength like this for much longer. She was too stubborn to let herself rely on anyone for very long.

Today, they were sixteen.

Just for tonight, they were children.

Tomorrow, they would be adults.

And perhaps...heroes.


	2. A Long Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estinien has been rescued from Nidhogg's clutches, but still sleeps. But no one can stand watch alone forever.
> 
> Corresponds with Chapter 49 of "Aren't You Cold?"

His knees ached and his voice had given out. It didn't matter. He prayed silently, to every one of the Twelve, to the Mother Crystal, to anyone. After all they had done, all they had accomplished, after all they had suffered. Please, please don't let them lose another friend.

But he wasn't to be left alone. The hospitalier knight all but forced him out of the room, and even as he was arguing, Berylla swooped in and all but dragged him away.

He stumbled, exhausted, but angry nonetheless. He was no child to be shepherded about! But he had to admit, he was very tired, now that he was forced to pay attention to his own body. He tried not to pout and sulk, but his thoughts were rebellious even as he let Berylla take him back to the manor.

In the bathing chamber he let himself drop any pretense of being all right. His hands shook as he grabbed a towel and a set of clean sleeping clothes from his room, as he prepared the bath.

At least Berylla had not followed him into the bathing chamber.

He climbed into the bathtub, hissing just a little as his cuts and bruises reacted to the hot water. He had healed himself, but only the bare minimum – his magic had been exhausted even as he had come running towards Estinien. He scrubbed, grimaced at the gray color of the water, and emptied the tub, to refill it once more.

Then he cleaned his hair, and scrubbed a second time until his skin was stinging.

He was finished, dried off, and pulling on the clean things before he stopped to consider if Berylla would be waiting just outside the door or the like. Surely not; she must have better things to do with her day.

He opened the door and went out into the hallway.

And there she was, leaning against the frame of her bedroom door, patiently waiting.

He went past her, but he left his own door open. She came and leaned her shoulder against the door jamb, watching him as he brushed his hair. Embarrassed all over again, in spite of (or perhaps because of) how glad he was that she was still paying such attention to him, his brush strokes were much harsher than usual.

Embarrassment manifested as irritation as he snapped at her, “Alisaie wouldn't be nagging me.”

But when Berylla said she would help him get to sleep – his mind went blank, and only his body reacted for a moment. He was intensely glad for the loose pants, even if his manhood was only half awake it was still...

She blushed as she realized how she had phrased herself and back tracked, and he drew a breath to calm himself. Then he climbed into his bed, and she really did sit and sing to him.

Her voice wasn't like Nightbird's voice. But somehow the care she was showing him – singing to him this way...it didn't matter whether she was a good singer or not. She could have sounded like a crow and he would have gladly listened, just to keep her with him, to keep holding her hand, to know her attention was, for once, solely focused on him. He admitted, to himself, how jealous he had become of those others that had drawn her eyes. Lord Haurchefant, and now Ser Aymeric – both of them handsome, capable men, and worst of all, older and more worldly than himself. He couldn't compete with them, could he? But oh, he wished she would look at him the way she looked at the lord commander.

Those were the thoughts that stayed with him as he sank into sleep.


	3. Coils of Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are spoilers involving Coils of Bahamut here just be warned!  
> This goes "back in time" compared to the previous entry, just to reassure anyone who might be confused.

Alphinaud Leveilleur was glad to be alive – and yet, the cost had been staggering.

He could never have predicted the incredible things he had seen in the last twenty-four hours – the things he had heard, the things he had done – all of it so far beyond unthinkable that his mind reeled even now.

His grandfather, still alive – yet in thrall to the very being he had been willing to give his life to defeat – and yet even so, still _himself_ , enough to give them those precious, heart-breaking final moments.

The night air of Thanalan was sweet, after the closeness in that massive chamber in the belly of the earth. The smell of burnt ceruleum fuel, Allagan oils, and smoke still clung to him, however. He ached all over, inside and out: bruised from the combat, nearly drained of aether from their incredible joint casting, and most of all, sore in heart.

He looked over at Alisaie. If he hurt this much, how much more must she ache? She had ever been the one most attached to their grandfather. She hid it well, and normally he would not quibble with her about it. But right now...

He reached out and pulled her into a hug.

She put her arms around him, but she was still stiff, still holding back.

He searched for words, but his silver tongue failed him. There was nothing he could say. They had lost their grandfather for a second time – no, a third time. Once when he left Sharlayan, and again when they learned of his death...and now, this – this confusion, this chaos. Truly, there were no words that could comfort her – comfort either of them.

He started a little as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and glanced up to see Berylla. To his shock, tears were pouring down her cheeks. She hiccuped once, even as she gathered both of them into her arms. “I'm so sorry. I didn't want to...to...”

“It had to be done,” Alisaie answered, her tone harsh.

“I know. But I never wanted to hurt you, either of you. It's just...so damn unfair.”

Alphinaud's eyes stung, and he loosened one arm so that he could put it around Berylla's waist. She was so much taller than the two of them, she had gone down onto one knee to manage hugging them. Something about her pose reminded him sharply of the day Louisoix had left them.

“Cry.” Berylla was speaking to Alisaie, but he felt her hand on his shoulder tighten.

“It is unseemly,” Alisaie managed, and then choked off her words. Her hands clutched at Alphinaud's clothing, tearing fabric already burned and frayed. She trembled.

“I need you to let it go,” the Warrior of Light whispered. “Can you do that for me?”

It was those words that broke them both. Even as he lost all pretense at composure, Alphinaud wondered if she had _known_ that phrase would undo them. She couldn't have missed that their grandfather had said those very words not an hour ago.

Alisaie collapsed, abruptly sitting down – she would have been on the ground if Berylla's knee had not been just behind her. Both of them leaned against their friend, clinging to each other, to her, and weeping. Long years of habit kept them both silent, but the tears fell nonetheless, soaking Berylla's jerkin. She held them, just held them, and he could feel her shaking as well, as she continued to weep.

“ _Why_ ,” Alisaie whispered. She did not need to elaborate.

Berylla's voice was rough with tears. “Because he loved you.”

Beneath the grief, something more: something so solid, so unshakable, even through his own tears, he recognized it.

Hope. But not hope as _he_ had ever known it. Hope unbreakable as a diamond; hope that could not be worn away, could not be tarnished, could not die.

He had said of the Warrior before, that she was the light of hope. He understood in that moment how true it was. How unending that strength!

Yet her arms around them were gentle, her hands soft. She held them as if they were the most precious things in the world – not at all a maternal sort of embrace and yet...and yet...

Alphinaud let himself lean more into that strength, and knew that his life had changed forever, though he could not, in that moment, have said why or how.


	4. Optimism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If one has enough confidence, anything seems possible.
> 
> Corresponds with Chapter 39 of "Aren't You Cold?"

Alphinaud Leveilleur watched the Warrior of Light sleep, and wondered if he would ever be more than just a boy in her eyes.

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her head bent forward. He leaned into her, careful lest he wake her. Most of the time he cursed his lack of height, but right now...it made it so very easy to get closer to her. When he had eased his body against hers, pressed against her side, she shifted.

He froze for a moment, looking up at her face, expecting to see a frown.

But her eyes were still shut, even as her arms loosened a bit, and – to his delight – she put one arm around his shoulders and clasped him to her side.

He cuddled shamelessly into her for a moment, his cheek against her ribs. Not for the first time he wondered what it might be like to touch her in less platonic ways. But he would not give in to the temptation that whispered to him of how close he was to her, how easy it would be, how he could even claim any such touch was purely accidental.

He sternly reminded his baser instincts that he was a _gentleman_.

Resolutely he rested his head against her and listened to the slow and steady beat of her heart.

The idea of her being with someone else still stung him, but far worse was the sting of shame in himself, for shouting at her as he had, for believing some ragged bit of gossip instead of thinking critically about the matter. He could have kicked himself, that day in Ishgard, as he watched her running away from him. His ears had burned from the way she had snarled at him, but he had deserved every word of it.

When she had talked with him in Tailfeather...he closed his eyes. “You've got a lot to learn – about yourself, and how relationships work,” she had told him. But he had seen how her hands had moved, the subtle tells in her expression, when she had said she cared about him. Even now it stirred a sense of hope in him.

Women in Sharlayan had pursued him relentlessly – though they sought only his family's money and influence, they saw plenty in him that they found desirable. Berylla's phrasing had not escaped him. He was certain he could persuade her to see him differently.

Learning had always come easily to him. This ought to be no different, surely. More challenging, to be sure, than learning seventh-order formulae of conjuration or memorizing anatomy, or mastering a new healing technique. But the reward would be so much sweeter...

He kept that thought as he let sleep pull him down.

He woke before she did, and sat up, stretching his arms above his head before he stood. He looked down at her, admiring the way the rising sun lit her hair and spun threads of gold among the strands of flaming red. To see her so, every morning – what a treasure that would be. But for now, he would remember how she looked in this moment and hoard such memories.

Quietly he gathered up the empty bottles they had set aside and tucked them into the empty basket. As he set the last bottle down, she stirred, and opened her eyes.

He went to one knee beside her. “Good morning.”

She gave him a small, sleepy smile. “Mornin'.”

Then, she sat up, and rolled her shoulders a little. “Thought I told you not to sleep out here.”

“I suppose I just dozed off,” he shrugged. He set one hand on her shoulder. “Did you rest well?”

“Oh yeah,” she yawned, “I'm fine. No different from campin' rough.” She patted his hand, and then moved to stand up. “Might grab a shower, though.”

He stood up as well and lifted the basket. “The facilities should be nearly deserted at this hour,” he observed. “I'm going to deal with all this,” he indicated the basket, “and then see whether Thancred has reported in yet.”

They made their way back to the Stones. There was a spring in Alphinaud's step as they walked.

They would find Minfilia. And he would find the way to Berylla's heart.

It would all work out beautifully, in time. He was certain of it.


	5. Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alphinaud receives a letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going back to just before the Titan fight, here

_**June 15** _ _**th** _ _**– further evidence of aetherial warping noted in the North Shroud. Measurements suggest the warping originates in Carteneau Flats, as predicted...** _

“Master Leveilleur? Letter for you, sir.”

Alphinaud looked up from the report he was studying, and gave the woman in the Twin Adder uniform a small nod. “Thank you, please just set it down. Did she demand that you wait for me, again?”

The woman's cheeks flushed but her voice remained professional. “My lady's instructions were most precise, sir.”

Alphinaud kept his sigh to himself, and nodded. “I will endeavor not to keep you waiting long, then.” He waited until the woman had bowed and taken herself off toward Urianger, before he picked up the envelope sealed with scarlet wax.

Alisaie's sigil was imprinted on the sealing wax. Always so precise about these things, his sister. He shook his head very slightly. Who else from their family would be sending him letters? Their father sent messages to Urianger, not to either of them directly; being an imminently practical man, he knew well that the older man could be relied on for such needs. Too, letting Urianger track down his wayward children was a far more efficient use of his Eorzean resources. Father's messages were generally to do with financial information and occasional tidbits of information relevant to the Scions' interests; hardly urgent news for the most part.

He was woolgathering. He picked up his pen knife and broke the seal, and removed the neatly folded pages from within the envelope.

The parchment crackled as he unfolded the letter, and a scent of incense and something oddly floral rose from the page.

_Alphinaud –_

_I am in Costa del Sol for a week, so I have time to write you. I hear from Urianger that you have been chasing after primals again, and I trust you are taking great care as you do so. He mentioned the kobolds in particular to me; so I have kept my ears open in regards to the earth primal, Titan. It seems, however, that your adventurer friend has been roped into dealing with that situation. My own information will likely be redundant – the so-called Company of Heroes appears to be simply dragging your friend through one trial after another, disguised behind chores. I confess I would not tolerate such foolishness for long...but I digress._

_I have dispatched a pair of our employees into Coerthas on a brief foray for information as regards the Ixali tribe that lairs in their highlands. They have been instructed to deliver their reports to you directly by whatever means needed. Perhaps they will ferret out something of use to you regarding the bird-men and their goddess._

_I plan to spend my time here in La Noscea scouting the Garlean installation in the northeast – not far from Wineport, as I understand it. There is something going on there, something to do with the fragments of Dalamud that lie very close to the surface. I cannot but suspect that the Imperials are sniffing about for something to turn into a weapon, and if so – then I must find out what they know, before they succeed. I have agents watching all of the locations where the fragments might be accessible, of course, but the Agelyss site seems to be the hottest in terms of activity._

_Your last letter indicated that you wish to speak to me in person, but I am afraid that will have to wait until after I have concluded my survey of those fragments. Still, I am glad to know that my brother still worries for me from time to time._

_Perhaps in a few weeks, we can meet in Vesper Bay and spend some time properly catching up._

_Try not to do anything too reckless until then._

_Alisaie._

He couldn't help but smile as he read the letter a second time.

Alisaie had decided to take on work as a roving mercenary – an independent agent of sorts, unaffiliated with any Grand Company, and with only a tenuous connection to the Scions. He was glad she was drawing on their family's resources, even if she was being ridiculously stubborn in her insistence that she could accomplish as much as he could, despite her self-imposed limitations.

But he understood. They had done everything together for sixteen years, whether they willed it or not. He knew she was setting herself a challenge, and that half that challenge was to remain apart from him. And he knew, of course, that she loved him not one whit less than ever she had, for all her standoffish tone in her letters.

He pondered, re-reading her words one more time.

He set aside her letter and made a bit of room on the table in front of him, and then plucked a sheet of blank parchment from the thin stack to his left. He chewed on his thumbnail for a moment, and began to write.

_Alisaie –_

_I was glad to hear from you, though I have very little new to report for my own part. The Sands are quiet, and I spend much time studying of late, as I wait for reports from the field. The Antecedent is most insistent that I not carry out my investigations alone, so you may lay that worry to rest._

_Your information is most appreciated, redundant or not. More points of data can never hurt our understanding of the primals and of the history surrounding them, after all._

_I need not tell you to use utmost caution when meddling with Garleans. I question what sort of weapon they could possibly dredge up from mere rocks. Is there aught else you might suspect bears investigating among those fragments?_

_As for speaking together in person, I should like to think that you will indulge me in a meeting sooner than some few weeks! I can bring myself to Wineport easily enough, and quietly pass an afternoon there. You do still have your personal link-pearl, do you not?_

_If I do not hear otherwise from you, I shall visit there in three days' time._

_Affectionately,_

_Alphinaud_


	6. Vexation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not fretting, it is weighing the potential consequences of sending your Warrior of Light to fight a primal. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Events here match up with Chapter 23 of "Aren't You Cold"

Alphinaud Leveilleur hated waiting.

Estinien leaned up against the rocks, the sun glinting off the edges of his lance and his armor. Anyone in that much metal had no right to look so...so _comfortable_. Alphinaud looked away from the dragoon again, and gave in to his nerves enough to pace. He kept his hands behind his back, so that he would not chew on his fingernails – an appalling habit that had sprung into existence during his tenure as commander of the Crystal Braves.

Yet another uncomfortable thought that hounded him. So many things vexed him, nowadays. His utter failure to notice the machinations going on right under his nose, within a group of soldiers he had fondly believed to be his and his alone. The futility of his efforts so far in locating even a breath of rumor regarding the other Scions. He refused to think them fallen: they were missing in action until proven otherwise, and he _would_ find them and reunite them all.

Assuming he had not just sent their Warrior of Light to her death...

Confound it all. He mustn't think so negatively! They had rescued General Aldynn, had they not? They had determined that the Scions were not, in fact, going to be hounded to their deaths once they did resurface. They had accomplished that much already! Berylla was a capable warrior, tough beyond belief, and she bore the blessing of Hydaelyn besides. And she was not alone – Ysayle was a formidable combatant herself.

He wished, not for the first time, that he could have gone with Berylla. He was not a fool, however; he would be of little help – worse, he might prove a hindrance, if she had to concern herself with protecting him as well as dealing with the foe at hand. Without the Echo, without skill as formidable as her own, he was worse than useless to her in _this_ battle.

She had accepted the task as she accepted everything asked of her – with nothing more than a calm nod. That easy acceptance made his guilt weigh all the heavier on his mind.

She had even smiled at him – smiled, and patted his hand with sympathy, and assured him that she would be back soon. From another, it might have been condescending – a grown-up reassuring a child and his equally childish fears. Not so, coming from her. She acknowledged his fear, but she didn't let it stop her for one second; she never had. She had set forth without bravado, without hesitation.

He found that he had come to a stop, and his thumbnail was between his teeth. He dropped his hand, scowling.

A sound caught his attention, and he looked around at Estinien. The dragoon was laughing, quietly.

“What is so amusing?”

“You,” came the laconic answer, and the dragoon's grin widened as Alphinaud made a little huff of indignation. “Fretting, lad? Is Berylla not the Warrior of Light, the vaunted hero of the Steps of Faith, the toppler of Titan, so forth and so on?”

Alphinaud's mouth twisted. “Your humor is misplaced, Ser Estinien. This foe is an unknown quantity. It is hardly _fretting_. We do not have the luxury of simply sending someone else, should the unthinkable happen.”

“Unthinkable? How...poetic.” The dragoon snorted. “Do you have faith in the woman or not, Leveilleur?”

“Of course I have faith in Berylla's abilities! I have fought at her side for over a year, I should like to remind you. I know what she can do, but even the mightiest warrior to walk Eorzea can be brought low...especially if she does not know enough about her foe.”

“So you're worried about her.”

Alphinaud turned his back to the dragoon, and ignored the man's chuckle. “I do bear a certain responsibility towards her. She is my comrade, my fellow Scion, and she trusted me with her life, going out there to fight this being.”

“Yes, a most inconvenient blot on one's record, to send someone out on a doomed mission.”

Alphinaud whipped back around, but Estinien was not laughing now. His voice was serious as he straightened away from the rocks. “We operate on what information we have, and we improve that information as we can. But we do not have the luxury of time for exhaustive scouting, and you know that. You've done the best you can. Trust her to do her best.”

Alphinaud could only cross his arms and look away. He did trust Berylla...but he couldn't shake the fear that sat on his chest, making it hard to breathe when he contemplated harm coming to her. She was all he had left, right now. He had had exactly one message from Urianger, and in that brief missive, exactly one sentence had let him know Alisaie was well and walking free. Who knew when he might actually see his sister again?

He had failed the Scions so very badly. He wasn't sure what would become of him, should he fail Berylla now, sending her off blind into this battle.

“She is too important,” he managed at last, “for me to act as though she were any other adventurer.”

“Important to whom?” Estinien asked, his tone once more sardonic. “Not to me, I can assure you. Not to Ishgard. To us she _is_ just another adventurer: impressive to be sure, but nothing more. Rather less than special to the Holy See, I would surmise.”

Alphinaud's ears caught the hint of something beneath the offhand tone. “What do you mean?”

“You can't have imagined that you truly got caught consorting with heretics so easily?”

Warmth rose in Alphinaud's cheeks. He cleared his throat. “In fairness, I _was_ warned not to go to that meeting.”

“You were set up,” Estinien said bluntly.

“How can you be so sure of that?” Alphinaud asked. “I was given to understand that Ishgardian law is most uncompromising when it comes to heresy, even perceived heresy...”

“Perhaps you are unaware of the depths of corruption within our fair city,” Estinien said dryly. “But you cannot have missed the speed with which your trial took place, at the least. It is not at all the usual thing for the inquisitors to hurry so; not when putting heretics to the question is so very...fruitful.”

Alphinaud felt ice thread its way down his back. He had been so enraged by the way the knights had ruthlessly intimidated Tataru, by the casual insults and offhanded humiliations... He had not thought about such details, or about their implications.

But now...he cast his mind back over those memories, and saw exactly what Estinien meant. There had been ample evidence that the cells in that part of the Vault had been used for torture as much as for incarceration. And he did know how fond of bureaucratic “red tape” the other, less violent aspects of Ishgardian law could be. Mere consultations were scheduled weeks in advance...

The dragoon was silent, seeming to understand that further words just now would only be distracting.

“The archbishop wanted us captured, and I merely provided a convenient pretext for the situation,” Alphinaud said slowly. “But why would...hm. Because he wished a demonstration of Berylla's abilities, of course.” He frowned, and chewed on his other thumbnail. “He has to have had reports from Ser Aymeric, and from Lord Haurchefant before that...” Then his eyes widened a little. “Ah. He wanted direct observations from men he _trusts_.”

When he looked up at Estinien again, the dragoon nodded. “Aye, you have the right of it. The archbishop does not trust anyone outside of the Heavens' Ward. All others are mere pawns to his whims.”

Alphinaud blinked twice. “You are telling me that Ishgard is in fact no safe haven at all for Berylla.”

“Ishgard is no safe haven for any man who is not within the upper reaches of the Vault, boy.” The dragoon shrugged, his mouth turned downwards. “Those of us who love our city will defend her to the last, whether we trust her leaders or no.”

“Ah. I see.” A moment of silence dragged out between the two of them. “For what it may be worth,” he offered, “I know Berylla is determined to defend Ishgard as well. She has come to regard the city with great fondness, and not only because of House Fortemps and its generosity towards us Scions.”

“Does she, now?” That seemed to please the dragoon, and he smiled a little, a teasing tone returning to his voice. “Assuming she comes back from your little errand, it will be good to have her on our side.”

“ _Oh!_ ” Alphinaud's hands tightened into fists, exasperated.

Estinien's laugh rang out against the rocks.


	7. Arrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events herein correlate with Chapter 56 of "Aren't You Cold?"

Alphinaud Leveilleur was afraid.

Thancred had come into the manor carrying someone wrapped in a cloak. Someone small.

Tataru was on her feet instantly, demanding information, but Thancred didn't speak. His eyes fixed on Alphinaud's.

Alphinaud felt his chest go tight, and a chill ran through him.

As Thancred moved towards the couch nearest the fire, they all gathered close, even Lord Edmont. Tataru fell silent as Thancred set his burden down and gently pulled back the cloak.

Never in his life had Alphinaud experienced such an assault of emotions. His head was spinning even as he flung himself to his knees beside the couch. “Alisaie! _Alisaie!_ ”

His sister lay there, too pale, too still – his heart stopped, then started again when her fingers twitched in his hands. She muttered, too softly to make out the words, and her eyelids fluttered.

“What _happened?_ ” he demanded of Thancred, without taking his eyes off her. Even as he listened, he extended his aether, wishing he had learned the techniques Y'Shtola knew, that allowed diagnosis. All he could say for certain was that his sister was in immense pain.

Thancred told him in a few terse words what had happened. How Alisaie had not succeeded in hiding her presence from the Warriors of Darkness. How she had fallen to a poisoned arrow.

“Al-Alphinaud? B-brother...?” Alisaie's voice was barely a whisper.

“I'm here. I'm here, Alisaie. You're going to be all right...”

“Where is...where is...” she winced, and her hand tightened on his. “Where is Berylla?”

“She's nearby. Don't exert yourself, Alisaie. You need rest.”

“Bollocks,” she muttered, and opened her eyes. “She needs...needs to know...it's important, Alphinaud. I need to t-tell her this. Myself.”

“Lord Edmont,” Alphinaud said, still not looking away from Alisaie's pale features. “Would you be so kind as to send someone to fetch Berylla home?”

“Of course, my boy.” Orders were given, and there was a mild rush of activity, servants clearing away the remnants of dinner and bringing coffee and tea and a few medicines that were kept on hand here.

Alphinaud gave his sister a careful measure of analgesic, stirring the powder into well-sweetened tea and holding her head to help her drink it down. She sighed, her eyes closing once more. She didn't let go of his hand, not that he would have let her go either.

He thought he had been worried about Estinien. This was _so much worse_.

Berylla arrived, with Ser Aymeric right behind her. A brief flurry of explanations took place – he had, after all, never mentioned Alisaie to the lord commander. By the time that was done, two burly fellows arrived from the infirmary, ready to carry Alisaie there to be treated.

Alisaie's head moved, her eyes only half open. “Berylla...? Is that y-you?”

Berylla knelt immediately, caressing Alisaie's hair. “I'm here, Alisaie. Sh. We've got you safe. You're going to be all right...”

“The...” She gasped with pain, but fought to keep speaking. “The warriors of darkness...they mean to summon Garuda. At Xelphatol. You have to...you have to s-s-stop them.”

“Sh. All right. We will. Rest, Alisaie. Please.”

“You can't let them...”

“I promise. We'll stop them. You have to rest now. For me, okay?”

She sighed, and shut her eyes.

Alphinaud's eyes widened in anger at Alisaie's information. What were these Warriors of Darkness playing at, goading the beast tribes into summoning primals with such abandon? She was right. They must be stopped.

Alphinaud forced himself to let go of her hand, to stand up, to at least appear calm and collected.

The prospect of combat galvanized him, piercing the frozen fear in his bones. He could not fight the poison running through his sister's veins. But he could do battle with the ones who had so grievously harmed her.

Alisaie suffered herself to be set onto a stretcher and carried out, and Alphinaud began to plot out the best and fastest way to reach Xelphatol. But they had only just agreed on an approach from the ground when bells began to ring. An odd pattern, not like anything he usually heard from the great Cathedral – not even the same bells, from the sound.

A blizzard warning.

He kept his temper, by the thinnest strands of his will.

They put Alisaie in the same room that Estinien had once occupied.

Alphinaud discovered that if one snarled viciously enough, even Captain Whitecape _would_ leave the room.

No prayers, now. He knew full well she would recover, he had every faith in that. It was more a question of how long it would take. Dravanian poisons were much more pernicious than whatever had tipped the arrow that struck Alisaie.

She didn't need his prayers.

Which left him with only his guilt.

He should have kept in touch with her. They still had their personal link-pearls. He had been content with her occasional letters – which he always answered, of course. But he should have done more. Why had he assumed she was simply carrying on with her various odd jobs as a wandering mercenary of sorts? Though, the last time he had heard from her, she was spending a great deal of time at the Waking Sands. He had believed that she was safe enough with Urianger.

He knew he needed to stop thinking in such a negative circle. It was doing him no good, and certainly not helping Alisaie. And yet...seeing her so pale and still stabbed him in the heart.

He scrubbed the back of his hand across his cheeks again. His cheeks hurt, his eyes were beginning to swell, and his head ached.

He heard steps in the hallway. A breath of cooler air wafted across the back of his neck.

“Alphinaud.” Berylla's voice was quiet.

“What.”

“I know we're delayed,” she said, “but didn't you say that there was no point in such a vigil?”

“I've done what little I can to prepare for the morrow,” he rasped, not turning his head. “Until this damned storm passes, we're stuck here.”

“Yes, but shouldn't you rest?”

“I tried. I couldn't.” His voice trembled. “I can't.”

He stood up then and turned to her. She bit her lip as she looked at him, worry creasing her brow. Her hands twitched, as if she wanted to reach for him.

“She's always been with me, and I knew,” he gritted. “I _knew_ she was all right. I was so _certain_ she couldn't possibly come to any real harm. And now...”

“It's not as if you fired the arrow at her,” she reminded him. “And she's getting the very best of care.”

“Indeed. She's going to be fine,” said a new voice.

Both of them turned toward the door to see Captain Whitecape. A pair of servants came in behind him, bearing a cot. The Captain held a tray in his hands.

“Since you refuse to leave, Master Alphinaud,” the Captain said, as the servants set up the cot, including extra blankets, “I must insist that you at least attempt to rest.” Before Alphinaud could protest, he added, “I have a sleeping draught prepared, if necessary.”

He wanted to snarl again, to drive them all out of here, to leave him _alone_.

Berylla reached out and hugged him with one arm. “You really should at least lie down for a little. Rest your eyes, even if you can't sleep.”

Her touch sent a shiver through him, and it broke his mind free of the black spiral of guilt and worry. He sighed. He had trapped himself in such thoughts more than long enough.

“I suppose,” he mumbled, giving in. “Just for a moment...”

Whitecape quirked an eyebrow. “May I assume that you'll be more reasonable, Mistress Berylla?”

“Now that I know he will be cared for also, I'll go get some rest myself.” She turned toward the door.

Alphinaud reached out and caught her wrist. When she looked back at him, he whispered, “Thank you.” He wished he dared say more – he squeezed her wrist just a little, as if he could transmit his feelings through that gentle pressure.

She nodded, her eyes warm on his. He let go of her, and she walked out.

He accepted the potion from the Captain, and didn't even cough at the bitter taste. Then he laid down on the cot without removing his boots. The door shut firmly, and the room was dim once more.

Laying on his back, staring at the ceiling, he waited for the medicine to drag him under. His weary mind focused on how it had felt, leaning into Berylla's strength that way.

Then he slipped into memory, of another night, a different despair, a sharper guilt. He had leaned on her then, too, that night in the intercessory. And again, when they had learned of Minfilia's fate. She had stood beside him, a firm friend through so much.

Did she know, he wondered fuzzily. Did she know how much just that small hug meant to him?

Then he recalled their conversation at Tailfeather. Of course she knew. He had made his feelings known to her...and she _had_ answered him. Not the answer he had hoped for, to be sure, but an answer that gave him hope.

The medicine fogged his mind and tugged his eyelids closed. His last thought before succumbing to sleep was of Berylla's gentle smile.


	8. Fiery Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events herein correlate with chapters 45 and 46 of "Aren't You Cold?"

Alphinaud Leveilleur was not happy.

He paced in front of the aetheryte outside of Moghome, and tried not to imagine all the ways that Berylla's “quick way” up the paths of Sohm Al could go horribly wrong. The moogles who passed by him from time to time gave him curious looks, but none had thus far accosted him. He paid them little mind.

Why had he let her do this? The entire notion was foolhardy, reckless, _insane_ – but Berylla had rushed off before Alphinaud could collect his wits enough to argue.

Bah, he was as much a fool as she was. He tried to push away the stab of jealousy, again, as he recalled how Ser Aymeric had wrapped his arms around her. _He_ certainly had not looked unhappy in the slightest. Resolutely, he turned his mind away from imagining his own arms around the warrior's waist.

He stopped in his tracks as a roar echoed up to him, from the tunnel that led into the great mountain. He turned to look at the tunnel mouth, and listened as the roar did not stop, merely became louder and louder. This was a roar that could not have come from any dragon's throat. His brow furrowed as he heard another sound – distorted by echoes and rock and distance. A shout? Surely that could not be _Ser Aymeric's_ voice, yelling like a schoolboy?

What in Thaliak's name were the two of them doing?

Enraged screeches joined the racket swelling forth from the tunnel. The roar was loud enough now to rattle his teeth. Behind him, the moogles were making noises of fear and curiosity – typically for moogles, they seemed unable to decide on one or the other.

A white shape _exploded_ from the tunnel mouth, rocketing into the sky beyond.

Alphinaud staggered back several steps, crying out involuntarily and throwing his arm across his face to ward off the wave of flames, and the furnace-hot wind that flung dust and pebbles everywhere. The roaring was so loud it _hurt_ – but in an instant it was gone.

He shook his head rapidly and cast his gaze around. Frantic fear sparked in him, and though he was not given to swearing, he let out a curse as he saw that her manacutter was ablaze.

He heard Berylla shout, her voice ringing out across the distance. The moogles swirled about just behind him now, chattering, excited, confused. Alphinaud cursed a second time, helpless to do anything but watch.

A trail of black smoke issued from the back of the manacutter, and showed just how unstable the vehicle's flight had become. It had shot outward many yards into the open air, and now looped around, crossing its own trail and heading straight for Moghome. There was no roar from it now – in fact, it was _much too silent_ –

The moogles ceased their chatter. A single voice piped up. “Is – is it coming here?”

“It's...uh...it's not slowing down...”

Alphinaud's eyes were glued to the manacutter as it careened closer. He could make out Berylla's face, and it was full of fear.

Thaliak have mercy – was he about to see his warrior perish?

“It's going to crash!!”

He saw her haul on the control rod, saw the nose of the manacutter angle upward just enough – instantly he perceived that the vehicle was going to touch down on the upper gardens of the moogle village.

Even before the staring moogles began to scream, he spun on his heel and _ran_.

He reached the top just in time to see the crash.

The manacutter – smoking profusely from _many_ places now – plowed into the lush grass. Moogles scattered, shrieking in panic, as the machine tore a furrow into the earth, knocking aside the smaller statues and rocks. A figure was thrown clear – blue and gold, it had to be Ser Aymeric – but the man somehow managed a controlled tumble rather than crashing into the ground. Alphinaud ignored him for the moment and kept his eyes on Berylla – he caught a glimpse through flying dirt and rocks of her face and saw her mouth moving as she cursed, and then she grimaced and he knew she was bracing for impact.

The manacutter smashed into one of the great monoliths that dominated the garden, and came to a stop at last. Berylla went flying – her body going end over end twice before she hit the ground and rolled – not as Aymeric had done, either.

She was limp, unconscious.

His attention was riveted on her as he ran, and he did not care that his voice cracked with fear as he shouted. “Berylla! _Berylla!_ ”

Aymeric got to her first, but did nothing more than kneel beside her before Alphinaud reached them. He nearly skidded in the dirt as he came to a stop and ended up on his knees, on the other side of Berylla's body from the lord commander.

Her arm moved weakly, and her eyes were open, though there was blood smeared across her face and her arms. He could not help himself; even as his eyes stung with tears, he growled at her, “Gods-be-damned stupid, stubborn – ”

“Good to see you too,” she croaked.

“Shut up and be still.”

He ran his hands over her, swiftly assessing the damage, his aether already calling up the healing power he would need as his mind categorized the hurts his fingers detected.

Nothing broken – a miracle, that. Contusions, lacerations – and he did not need to use his hands to see the already swelling lump on the side of her head. An inch closer to her temple and she might not have regained consciousness...

He shoved down the fear that cramped his belly, and focused his mind, bending the power to his will, molding it into the correct configurations, the requisite formulas and incantations. His aether flowed into those familiar patterns, tugging the healing energy along behind it. Aches were soothed, cuts closed over, and his power wrapped around her body and sank in. The low-energy spell would keep her pain at bay for a time, until he could do more.

“You're getting stronger at that.” Her voice was steadier, her eyes clear as she sat up slowly.

“I have to keep up with _you_.” His tone was sharp as he hid his relief. “Since you keep finding new and outrageous ways to hurt yourself.” He could barely believe she was alive and remarkably unharmed, despite her recklessness.

His aether tangled with hers, and he pulled it back, locking it down, before she noticed his minor intrusion. He got up, forcing his hands to stay at his sides, letting Ser Aymeric help her to her feet.

“I'm capable of going on,” she began, and he had to hold on to his temper with metaphorical teeth and toenails.

“Oh, no you bloody don't!”

He could feel her impatience and resentment, as she stood looking out of the cave they had found to shelter in – one not technically within Moghome. He could not fault the moogle chief for throwing them out; after all, the manacutter had destroyed a swathe of their garden. At least none of the moogles had been injured.

She leaned against the rock wall, arms crossed, and her aether coiled restlessly around her, tendrils licking out at random, some of them reaching all the way to him, or looping around Aymeric for a moment. He wondered if she knew what she was doing. But it seemed to him she did not, for there was no focus to the dark-purple energy that brushed against his own. Only a sense of seeking. _What_ she sought, he could not say.

By the time he had prepared tea for them all, she had already finished setting up her pot of stew. He did not understand how she could work so quickly, but then most of the mysteries of cooking were beyond him. He tolerated her teasing him, glad that she was at least capable of humor despite her frustration.

He knew she would be all right. He had seen her heal with miraculous speed, from injuries far worse than a concussion. But she needed _time,_ nonetheless. He could not, _would_ not, regret putting their urgent journey on hold.

She gazed up at him as he cleaned the last of the blood away from her head wound, taking care to make sure none remained in her hair. “Still mad at me?”

“I was never angry with you.”

“You know...I keep telling you not to worry so much...”

“I know you do.” He wrung the cloth out, and picked up her hand, turning her arm and cleaning a spot near her elbow that he had missed. “I can't help it.”

He just looked at her for a moment, his chest aching. Why could she not understand how much she meant to him? Even aside from the feelings he still harbored for her – Berylla was too important to him to simply not worry about her. He wished that he dared to _truly_ link his aether with hers, to communicate with her on a level beyond words. But it would be entirely unethical – and likely unwelcome, too.

Her eyes slid away from his, and he got up and went back to the fire.


	9. Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alphinaud pays a visit to Wineport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place sometime during that long and annoying period when the Warrior of Light is off fetching cheese and other nonsense.

Wineport was almost always warm, being situated along the semi-tropical coast of Vylbrand; its placement in the south-facing hills afforded it cooling breezes and a selection of very pleasant views. Those aspects of the little town were, however, secondary for most of its visitors. The vineyards that stretched for miles across those hills – or more precisely, the wines that they produced – were the best in Eorzea. The merchants who frequented the town were all accustomed to “certain standards,” as some might say, and so the inn and the tavern both were lavishly appointed for their moderate prices.

Alphinaud had seen nicer inn rooms, and he had partaken of finer menus. The outdoor seating held a certain rustic charm, though he had seen better arrangements there as well.

He had to admit, however, that he had not enjoyed quite such fine wine since leaving home.

He said as much to his sister, but Alisaie shrugged. “It's pleasant enough.”

Alphinaud raised one eyebrow. “You are really most distracted. Whatever has captured your attention so thoroughly?” He had not thought her investigations into the nearby castrum would have borne any fruit so quickly. She had only been here four or five days, after all.

To his further surprise, her cheeks colored, and she looked away. “Nothing.”

He sipped his wine, and watched her for a moment as she picked at her sweet. Alisaie _never_ picked at a dessert.

“What is the matter, dear sister?”

“I said it's nothing.” She sat back and shook her head, hiding her eyes behind her bangs for a moment. Then – reluctant, quiet, almost whispering: “Nothing that I wish to discuss right now. Please.”

Alphinaud nodded, and answered in a low voice, “As you wish.”

The two of them both looked up at a small commotion at the town gates.

A caravan was arriving, but this was not the usual merchant group. Colorful wagons and gaudily dressed outriders and a great deal more noise than strictly necessary...some sort of traveling performers, perhaps? Even Alisaie watched with the same bemusement as most everyone else.

A tall Elezen fellow, dressed in a motley of red and yellow, leaped up onto the roof of the largest wagon, and proceeded to bellow out a cleverly rhymed bit of balderdash that circled around the actual message for a good five minutes. But eventually, it was made clear that this particular troupe had just come from some sort of summer festival in Gridania, and was headed for Costa del Sol – but would be performing in Wineport this evening.

Even as the minstrel proclaimed his piece, the smaller wagons circled round the town common. It was obvious that this was to be a festival in miniature, as those smaller wagons opened up and began to transform into small booths, bedecked in color and manned by cheerful men and women.

The largest wagon pulled into a spot near the completely ornamental archway in the middle of the square, and immediately began its own transformation – into a small stage.

Alphinaud smiled a little. Another thing he had not enjoyed since leaving Sharlayan. There never seemed time enough to arrange for a musical evening or to view a play...

Alisaie looked across the table at him, and her smile answered his. “It's likely to be terrible, you know,” she told him, and Alphinaud chuckled.

“Even so,” he nodded, “it will be entertaining nonetheless.”

The performance was not to begin until sunset, affording plenty of time to browse the little booths. Alisaie gravitated immediately toward the booth displaying honey candies, of course; Alphinaud smiled and turned his steps in the opposite direction. Not that he did not enjoy the occasional confection; but he knew she would be meticulous in her perusal of the wares, and likely would be able to advise him on what to choose. He could perhaps bring back some extra treats, for the other Scions. The Waking Sands had been much too quiet and sober of late...

His eye was caught by a flash of color, and he paused, then approached the merchant. His gaze traveled over the unusual ornaments on display, taking in the riot of colors. Had the colors not been so vivid (and in a couple of cases, outrageous), he might have believed these real feathers. They were, in fact, finely carved pieces of thin wood and cleverly tooled leather. Many of them were affixed to exotic looking half-masks – the base may have been the same as a Wood Wailer's mask, but the end result was anything but military. The merchant grinned at him. “My sister's the one what does the carving and crafting,” he told Alphinaud. “See anything you like?”

Alphinaud's attention was riveted on a delicate hair comb. The wood of the comb was a rich mahogany color, and a spill of wooden beads painted green and white made a pleasing counterpoint to the wooden feather also strung from the comb.

“What sort of feather might this be?” he asked.

“Osprey,” the man answered promptly. He grinned a little as Alphinaud's brow furrowed. “You see 'em along coasts and lakes. Some folks call 'em sea hawks – though fisher hawk is more like.”

“Sea hawks,” Alphinaud murmured, and he smiled. “I'll take this one, if you please.”

The play was one that both he and Alisaie knew. They had seen far worse productions of this particular tale – and if he was honest, Alphinaud was quite taken with the inventive way the troupe had handled the balcony scene, working with the archway so that the illusion was preserved without forcing their poor Roxanne to balance on some rickety ladder or the like. Alisaie seemed taken with the actress herself, and he smiled a little, happy to see the sparkle in his sister's eyes as she applauded at the end of the show.

But she was pensive once more as she prepared to head back to Costa del Sol, where she had rented quarters.

“Shall I help you carry anything?” he offered.

Alisaie shot him a look. “I am not feeble, brother. I can manage.”

“Of course,” and he smiled at her, “I was merely looking for an excuse to walk with you for a time, Alisaie.”

His directness took her by surprise, and she blinked at him. Then huffed, blowing at her bangs a little. “Oh, all right. Not that I need walking home.”

He didn't reply, simply fell into step beside her as she started out the gate.

The night was neither dark nor quiet. The jungles here boasted fabulous flora, shrubs whose roots thrived in wind-aspected soils, and so floated above the ground – sometimes only a few inches, but the oldest and largest specimens soared yards above the ground. Not content with this, the plants also put out blooms that glowed bright crimson in the night. Among these gaudy flowers, several species of nocturnal cloudkin sported, making something of a racket as they hunted moths and competed over females and the like. He wondered if one day he might have so much time on his hands as to come here and make a study of the flora, and the fauna as well. There were friends of his back in Sharlayan that would be quite fascinated by all this, but he would have to send them sketches at the very least, to prove to them that he was not merely spinning fanciful tales.

The ferryman was gruff, and Alisaie remained silent as they boarded the boat and proceeded downstream to the shallower part of the Agelyss.

Not until their boots were once more treading dirt – the road to Costa del Sol, now – did she speak. “You did not need to come here, you know.”

“I know.” He bumped his shoulder into hers. “I wanted to spend time with my sister, who is most headstrong and can be, at times, terribly reckless. Especially when she gets the bit in her teeth and decides her idea is worth chasing no matter what.”

“Hmph.” She glanced at him, then away, and shifted her satchel on her shoulder.

“I confess, I am glad to see that you are not entangled in another sugar-vine situation.”

She let out an exasperated noise. “It was once – _one time_ – ooh, you...”

He grinned, unrepentant. After a moment, she shoved at his shoulder, but he saw her grinning too.

“More to the point, I miss you, Alisaie.” He shrugged a little, and did not meet her eyes, looking instead at the road ahead of them. “I understand why you are doing things the way you are. I am not in difficulty, nor in distress. But...this is the longest we have ever spent apart. It...takes some getting used to, that is all.”

She stopped in her tracks. He paused, and looked back at her.

“You idiot.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He hugged her back, gladly, and pretended there was no water in his eyes as she pressed her forehead to his. “Why didn't you say that when you got here?”

He didn't answer, and she didn't press the issue. It was largely a rhetorical question, in any event. She was the one who blustered and acted with bold confidence. He was the one with the silver tongue and the quiet manner. Alisaie hid her heart behind a grin and a saucy remark, and he...

“I miss you too, brother dearest.” Her murmur carried to his ears only.

They stood thus for a moment more, and then Alphinaud sniffed a little, and leaned back. He tried for a smile, and felt it was not too shaky. “I almost think,” he said, his tone only a little wobbly, “that you might not want me to accompany you all the way to the town because you have something to hide.”

She shook her head at him, and squeezed him once more before letting him go.

“I have nothing to hide,” she answered. “Come on.”


	10. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Berylla is to meet with the archbishop - alone. Alphinaud wishes to ease her mind in some small way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This corresponds to Chapter 20 of "Aren't You Cold"

“The archbishop requests the presence of Mistress Berylla...”

Emmanellain looked up at that, jaw dropping open. “What? An invitation from the archbishop!?”

Artoirel also looked amazed. “What an honor...”

Berylla simply raised her eyebrows. Alphinaud knew that expression. It meant she didn't know what everyone else was talking about. He chuckled inwardly. Obviously she had not been listening, all those times he and others had discussed Ishgard's ruler.

But she got up and accepted the paper, and nodded to the Count before excusing herself, just as if she regularly spoke with kings and archbishops every day of the week.

He watched Berylla leave the dining room, and then turned his gaze to Count Edmont. He cocked his head slightly. “I take it this is quite the unusual situation, but I confess myself a bit bemused, my lord. Is there anything particular that we should be concerned about?”

Count Edmont regarded him for a moment. “While there are at least a dozen things I could speak to you about, Master Alphinaud,” there was a tinge of regret to his voice, “there is little point in my doing so. The summons was for Berylla alone.”

“Ah. A _singular_ honor, indeed.” He frowned. “Still, it might behoove me to make certain she feels as comfortable as possible going into this. I'm sure I can offer her some encouragement, if not advice. Pray excuse me, my lords.”

The Count nodded, and Alphinaud left the table, hurrying his steps somewhat to get back to his room. Words would do Berylla no good at all, and well he knew it.

She would surely be nervous. She hated this sort of formal affair, she had never been comfortable with such things; unless he was greatly mistaken, about now she was probably fretting over the summons. No amount of coaching would help her with courtly phrases, even if they had a week to prepare. No, he would certainly not offer her _words_.

But he _did_ have something that he hoped would be far better.

He tapped on her door, and heard her call, “Yes? Come in.”

Alphinaud stepped inside, keeping his hand behind his back. He paused, seeing Berylla in her usual garb. It was serviceable, and not at all shabby, but...

“You look...”

“I know.” She sighed. “Nothing for it. This is the best I have, it'll have to do.”

The wooden box seemed suddenly heavy in his hand. She had never breathed a word before about her opinions on finery. Well, but when had they ever had time to talk about such things?

He reined in his nerves, and said, “I thought I might have something that would help a little.”

“Eh?”

Alphinaud had wanted to tell her how he had obtained the comb, but words left him. He set the carved wooden box on her bed without speaking.

She took the box and opened it, and her eyes went wide.

“Alphinaud?”

He found he could not look at her. Her voice held shades of wonder in more than one sense of the word, and his stomach felt uneasy for a moment as he waited, hoping she would accept his gift.

The wooden beads clicked together, as she lifted the hair ornament from the box: she was trembling.

“This is exquisite,” she said; finally he was able to meet her eyes. “Where...no, _why_?”

“Call it a birthday gift.”

Her lips parted for a moment, then she nodded once. “I will, then.”

She turned, and carefully worked the comb into her hair. It looked even better in her fiery tresses than he had hoped.

“Thank you...” Berylla turned, and then stepped close, and hugged him.

“I really love it, Alphinaud. Thank you so much.”

He returned the hug, feeling his face warming. It felt good to see her smile so, to know she was happy, if only for a moment. He told himself that was the only reason he did not want to let her go.

“I wish I could bring you with me,” she told him. “You're the one with the silver tongue. The one who can see so much more than I can.” She stepped back, and sighed. “But the paper says very specifically that I have to come alone.”

“Well,” he gestured slightly at the hair comb, “I'll be with you in spirit, at least.” He wanted to touch her cheek, and for one moment he hesitated, hand still hovering near her.

She smiled, and eased back just a little. “I need to get going.”

He dropped his hand, and nodded. “Tell me everything when you get back.”

She stepped past him and into the hall, avoiding his eyes. He followed her, so that she could shut her door, and she strode away.

He watched until she turned the corner, then went back into his own room.

There, he sat at the small desk, and took out his sketchbook and pencils. He often sketched, when he had a moment or two. It was soothing to him, and he was good at it. Once upon a time he had flaunted his skills, but he had been younger then, and a fool, believing the pretty words of lovely girls whose hearts were anything but beautiful.

He still recalled the day he had truly learned just what all their pretty words were worth. When he had stood stock still, eyes wide and face painfully red, while the most beautiful girl in the entirety of Sharlayan mocked him to her friends, never once noticing his presence until it was far too late.

For a long time after that humiliation, he had not sketched faces at all.

Now, a different kind of beauty beckoned to him.

He considered for a moment, pencil poised above paper, and then began to draw.


	11. Still Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a beautiful day for a swim...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will put a warn here: there is some potentially triggering imagery if you are water phobic  
> For those who want to know but not risk triggers: this is why Alphinaud hates sea travel and isn't great about swimming in general.

It was a beautiful day for a swim.

Louisoix laughed to himself. It was _always_ a beautiful day for a swim on Fractal Lake. The reservoir lake was quite picturesque, with some areas set aside for swimmers and other areas fitted with small docks and piers to allow for boats to be kept. The trout in the lake were particularly delicious as well. Except in the worst of storms, Fractal Lake was quite popular.

This little spot was enough out of the way, however, that most of the folk who came to swim or sun did not care to trek to it, and so he and his family had the little strip of beach to themselves.

Forchelnaut relaxed in one of the slanting wooden chairs beside Louisoix, on the neat little strip of grass that separated the road from the gravel beach. A blanket was spread out just beside the seating area, and the remnants of their _al fresco_ meal had been tucked neatly away into the baskets which rested on the wooden table behind their chairs.

The simple tasks of serving themselves their own food and cleaning up after themselves after were a welcome change from the bustle of servants and sycophants. Forchelnaut and his wife Valeriane thrived on the social whirl and the political maneuvering that came along with their positions – Forchelnaut as a leading member of the Forum, and Valeriane in her capacity as liaison to the Forum for the Mercantile Guild. They were well suited to their roles. Louisoix was proud of his son, and glad that both he and his daughter in law were happy.

That life was not for him, however. He preferred quiet study, meditation, and exploration. Leading men had never been a passion of his, and it never ceased to amaze and bemuse him that his son was so very facile in that realm. But his grandchildren...ah, _they_ took after him. He could tell already, despite the twins being only five years old this coming spring. Little Alphinaud's passion for books had him haunting the family library at most any time of day, and wherever Alphinaud went, Alisaie followed – usually in hopes of finding mischief of her own to get into. She loved the books – but she was an active little girl, and often times would set her sights on an upper shelf just for the sheer impish joy of climbing the bookcases in a most unorthodox manner.

They filled Louisoix's heart to the very brim with joy.

He had time, as their parents did not, to spend with the children. Nannies and tutors were all well and good, he supposed, but there was no substitute for the loving presence of family. So he made certain that the twins received the attention they needed.

Today, however, was a rare day of relaxation for them all, and Val had decreed that there would be swimming lessons. Alisaie had, of course, been overjoyed to hear this, and they had had a time of keeping the girl at the table. Alphinaud's reaction had been more muted – Louisoix had already noticed how the boy copied his father's tendency to accept less-than-welcome information with quiet dignity. Overall, a mostly solemn little boy when in his father's company. Not all the time, however; and it relieved Louisoix's mind to know that Alphinaud could and did play and laugh like any child.

He listened to Forchelnaut with half his attention, watching Val and the twins. She had had to nearly drag Alphinaud into the water and was now speaking to him, gently, as she settled him on one of the large, smooth rocks placed for those who preferred to sit in the shallower water.

Just behind her brother, Alisaie danced from foot to foot, giggling as the water splashed her ankles.

A lovely day, for watching one's grandchildren play.

Mama had insisted that he come into the water, and though he did not like it, Alphinaud had obeyed. He would rather have read a book, but Mama had been _most_ strict and had not let him bring one. She sat him down on the rock and petted his hair a little. “It's all right, my little love,” she told him, with a small smile. “You can sit right here, and see? It is not so deep. Get used to the water, now, while I wear your sister out.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Alisaie was fidgeting, and now Mama turned towards his sister. Her smile was bigger, and he felt a little tickle of jealousy. Alisaie was Mama's favorite, and he was all right with that most of the time. But he did want Mama to smile at him more often.

“Come to me, then, Alisaie, my pearl.” Mama held her arms out and backed away from the rock, and Alisaie whooped.

“Yahoo!”

She jumped into the water, and the splash sent water up Alphinaud's nose. He sputtered and spat. “Hey! No splashing me!”

Alisaie turned in the water and stuck her tongue out at him. Alphinaud's fist curled and he glowered at his sister, quite annoyed.

“Now, now,” Mama chided. “Such an unladylike expression.”

Alisaie turned away from her brother, and he just knew she was making the biggest eyes she could, to look innocent and sweet. “Yes, Mama,” she caroled. “Sorry, Mama.”

Alphinaud noticed she didn't say sorry to _him_ , but Mama let it pass, as she often did, and he sighed and did not complain further. Besides, there would be no more splashing now – already Alisaie was paddling about in a wide circle around their mother.

Alphinaud turned his attention to the water itself. Here, the clear water was shallow, and he could see the bottom – smooth gravel and the occasional larger rock. But after a certain point, the water grew deeper, darker, and he eyed that shadowy boundary. He could touch the bottom, here. He felt very nervous about swimming over that dark water. He contemplated it, noticing how the surface of the water rippled. “Still waters run deep,” his tutor had told him yesterday. Perhaps the water there was not quite so deep as it looked, then?

He looked over at Mama and Alisaie. They were playing together, and Mama was showing Alisaie some new maneuver or other.

 _Mama_ was not afraid of the water. He had heard her say once that she could swim before she could walk, even. Her family had many, many ships, and his uncle said she had always loved the sea.

Alisaie was laughing now, and Mama gave her a kiss on the forehead.

Alphinaud's hands curled into fists. Very well. He knew how to swim, just as much as his dratted sister did. He would swim out towards that darker water, just enough to see the ripples close up, and swim back. Then Mama would see that he was brave, and she would smile at him.

Louisoix's attention had wandered a little, but when he saw Alphinaud push off from the rock and head away from shore, paddling with determination, he sat up. Forchelnaut paused in what he was saying, and then sucked in a breath as he noticed his son.

Val had her hands full with Alisaie, and did not see Alphinaud.

Forchelnaut got to his feet even as Louisoix did, and both of them headed for the water.

He was doing it! He was _really_ swimming. Alphinaud glanced back over his shoulder, and saw that Grandfather and Papa were both standing up. They must be impressed with him. Good!

Something brushed against him. It was just a fish, he told himself. There were lots of fish in the lake. Nothing to fear. He was almost there. He would turn around just as soon as –

The water surged around him and suddenly he was being _pulled_ , much too fast. The speed of it yanked him down a little and the water went over his face. He yelped once, arms flailing. A monster had him!

Alphinaud splashed, desperate, panicked, but the water was black all around him and he couldn't see properly. He gulped air, got a mouthful of water and spat it out, and then the water got in his face again.

He tried to cry out, but the monster in the blackness _had him_ , and pulled him down.

The water closed over his head.

Forchelnaut was running. He crashed along the wading rocks and then flung himself into the water, in a flat dive that used his momentum to get him that much farther out into the water – that much closer to Alphinaud.

Louisoix was hip deep in the water, coming to meet Val, who had scooped her daughter up the instant she realized what was wrong.

Alisaie struggled and complained, not understanding why her fun was being interrupted. Louisoix took her from her mother, and held her tight.

Val turned around and began to swim.

Louisoix had known, of course, that Val was a skilled swimmer – her family was, after all, closely tied to the sea and most everything to do with it. Just because they ran most of the shipping concerns on the island, and were one of the wealthiest families in Sharlayan, did not mean they neglected that heritage. But he had never seen her move so _fast_.

Forchelnaut had a head start on her, and yet she beat him to their son by several body lengths.

She grabbed the child and made for shore, her face pale. Forchelnaut followed, and Louisoix waded out of the water and onto the grass. By now, Alisaie had noticed what was going on, and clung to her grandfather, blue eyes wide. “Brother...?”

Val laid Alphinaud on the grass, and immediately began resuscitation. Forchelnaut knelt, not too close, and Louisoix set Alisaie down next to his son, and knelt on the other side of Alphinaud from the boy's mother.

Alisaie clung to her father's arm, her lower lip trembling now. “B-brother?”

Louisoix did not interfere with Val – she was quite familiar with the techniques needed. But as she set her hands on Alphinaud's chest and pressed in a measured rhythm, _he_ focused his power on his grandson's body. He could not chase the water out of the little lungs, but he could and did strengthen the boy's body, keep his heart from faltering, and cushion him against the inevitable pain.

They did not speak. Val's face was pale and taut, her mouth set in a tight line as she worked, gentle but insistent. Louisoix did not need to chant for his spells to do their work. Between them, Alphinaud lay still, and grew paler by the moment.

One minute became two minutes. Alisaie began to whimper, then to sob softly.

Abruptly, Alphinaud coughed.

Val turned him on his side as he twitched and coughed again, holding him steady as the little boy vomited up a goodly bit of lake water. He coughed harder, spitting and gasping, and color returned to his face and his limbs.

Louisoix heaved a great sigh of relief.

“Mama...?” The little boy's voice was hoarse and shaking.

“Twelve be praised.” Val pulled him close, cradling her son with trembling arms, her cheek pressed to his little head. Alphinaud curled against her, still coughing.

Forchelnaut coaxed Val to her feet, and got her over to the blanket, where he grabbed a big towel and began drying their son off before wrapping him. Louisoix picked Alisaie up in his arms and joined them there.

By the time Alphinaud was dry, however, Val was shaking violently.

Forchelnaut looked to his father. Louisoix understood. Val was a strong-willed woman, and most of the time she was well in control of herself. But such control, in a high stress situation, came at a cost. She needed time to vent her feelings, and it was best that she _not_ do so around her children.

“Father, can you..?”

“Of course I can. Go, take care of her. We will be fine here.”

Forchelnaut gathered his wife in his arms, and led her away. They would find a spot out of hearing, and they would return when she was recovered and calm once more.

Alisaie had wriggled out of Louisoix's arms and gone to kneel beside her brother. Her eyes were red and her nose was runny from crying. “Brother?” Her voice trembled as much as her lip. “Are you all right?”

Alphinaud shivered, and coughed again. His eyes were distant – shock, Louisoix recognized. But he nodded, silently, and did not object when Alisaie patted at him, an awkward attempt at comfort.

Careful of his joints, Louisoix sat down on the blanket beside his grandchildren.

Alisaie immediately climbed into his lap, seeking comfort. Then Alphinaud – moving slowly, with great concentration – also got up and staggered over, falling into his grandfather's lap more than clambering. Louisoix caught him easily and settled him in the crook of his arm. The boy's head rested against Louisoix's collarbone; Alisaie reached for her brother and gently rested her head against his.

He held both of them close, and did what he could to soothe them.

He could feel the alteration in Alphinaud's aether. Events like these changed a person, no matter their age. Impossible to say what sort of change might have taken place. All he could was watch, and wait, and hope that he could help.

Alphinaud rested against his grandfather, seeking the warmth and the familiar comforting solidity. He noticed his sister, and he was glad she was with him, but he wouldn't ever _tell_ her so.

He tried not to think about the monster in the lake. Tried not to dwell on how cold, and dark it had been, and how the beast had made noises in his ears, breathing on him, eager to swallow him up...

He shuddered. He wanted to cry, but he did not. His chest hurt. His head hurt. His _everything_ hurt, too much to do more than sniffle. He tugged the towel tighter around himself, and pressed his head against Grandfather until he could hear the slow, calm beat of the old man's heart. The sound lulled him into a doze, and then he tumbled into sleep, too exhausted for dreaming.


	12. Examination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alphinaud Leveilleur is about to fight a dragon. Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This event takes place concurrent with the events of Chapter 47 of "Aren't You Cold"

“Look well. This shall be the place of thy trial. Thou shalt have one quarter hour to prepare.”

Such had been Vidofnir's words to him after she deposited him on the stones of this platform among the clouds. One could not see the ground from here at all.

The platform was relatively simple – it might have been just a courtyard in an old country home if there had been a building attached, and if it had been properly on the ground as buildings ought. It was square in shape, with a stone wall all around the edge – a wall crumbling in places but no lower than knee height in any spot. The area within that parapet was relatively smooth, paved in white stone. But in places the stones were missing or broken, and there, pale yellow, thin grass grew, as if too stubborn to believe that the soil here was less than nourishing.

By contrast, the plants growing close to the walls were lush and green, heavy with enormous red lilies.

Most curiously, six sigils lay on the stones, placed three to either side of the arena. They were blue in color, and glowed faintly when he approached them. He did not step on them, merely examined one long enough to determine that the symbols appeared to indicate some kind of flight or propulsion. He summoned up Noir, and debated asking the carbuncle to trigger one of the sigils before deciding it was likely better not to do so.

A shadow passed over him, and that was all the warning he received that his quarter hour was up.

Vidofnir raced towards the platform, wings spread wide and jaws gaping. Alphinaud flung himself out of the path of her fiery breath with inches to spare, barely keeping his feet. He had no time to cast – she turned on her wing-tip with incredible speed and came at him again. As she passed him, he managed to hurl a damaging spell at her, though it did little more than annoy her. She circled a moment, then dived down past his line of sight.

He used that breath of time to wrap a spell of protection around himself, and Noir spun in a small circle, chattering angrily that their foe was not in reach.

A moment later, Vidofnir reappeared, going into a hover – then Alphinaud's eyes narrowed as he saw her spread her wings wide.

She shifted back a few feet from the force of her own wing-beats, but Alphinaud and Noir both staggered as gale force wind slammed into them. Alphinaud desperately tried to stay standing, even as his feet slid across the thin grass. Noir screeched and knocked into him, bringing him to one knee.

Alphinaud did not remonstrate with the carbuncle. He dug the fingers of his free hand into the ground as best he could, managing to catch one of the paving stones. He was relieved beyond words that the winds died just before he was shoved off the platform entirely.

He got up and sprinted forward, before Vidofnir tried the trick again. When she spread her wings a second time, he was able to toss a different shield over himself and went down on his knee, flexing the shape of his shield to deflect the greater force of the dragon's tempest.

He thought he heard her laugh, but then she dropped like a stone. He stood just in time to see her shooting back up towards the sun, wings beating strongly as she rowed for height. Then she performed a tumble in the air – a wing-over – and stooped down toward the platform, moving so fast that her form blurred to his sight.

But she did not attack him directly. Instead she strafed across one side of the platform, far too fast to use her breath against him, so close to the ground that her forelimbs obliterated some of the strange lilies growing there.

Only when she was past and rising, did he comprehend that she had _not_ missed.

Clouds of sickly green rose from the destroyed foliage, and he cursed and ran as they seemed to surge directly towards him.

He made it to one of the glowing sigils, the poison gas so close to him that his eyes stung and watered.

He yelped as he felt himself flung into the air, and for one terrifying moment he was airborne, disoriented, and certain he was going to fall to his death.

Then he landed on a scrap of rock, just big enough that he was able to get to his feet. Another glowing sigil floated in the air, so close that he could simply step onto it.

He glanced around swiftly, and saw that there were more rocks paired with sigils.

Vidofnir was plummeting towards the platform once more; he was standing in her path.

He leaped.

Two times more she dived down upon him, before the poison gas dissipated from the platform. He jumped from rock to rock, while below, Noir scampered back and forth. The carbuncle did not generally vocalize very much, but he could hear its enraged screeches even from thirty feet away.

At last he found a sigil colored green rather than blue. He took a chance and leaped to it, and was deeply relieved to find himself standing on the platform once more.

Noir bounced over to him, tails brushed out to their maximum size, eyes blazing.

Alphinaud wrapped both of them in protective spells, and braced himself in the center of the arena as Vidofnir barreled down at them.

She snapped her wings open, beating strongly, just time to keep herself from crashing into the platform. The wind she kicked up as she landed nearly knocked him over again, but Alphinaud managed to weather it and cast a spell of harm at her.

Her jaws snapped and she flung herself forward, talons spread wide.

Noir charged into her, and leaped straight into her face.

Her attack spoiled, she sputtered a moment, head rearing back as the obsidian carbuncle snarled and did its best to rip a piece of her snout off. She clawed at her face and dislodged the enraged creature, just in time to receive another blast of aether from Alphinaud's outstretched hand.

She bellowed once, and her wing swept out towards him.

He dropped and rolled to the side, and the strike whooshed over him.

He popped back up to his feet, grinning wildly, and prepared to cast another blast of pain even as Noir went for an ankle.

She turned as if to focus on the carbuncle. Then Alphinaud lost his spell and most of the breath in his lungs as her tail seemed to come from nowhere and slammed into his side, knocking him flying.

He groaned as he hit the ground, and struggled to get up. He couldn't get a breath, and wheezed, trying to at least get on his knees and crawl toward his tome, which had been knocked out of his hand.

He heard her coming for him, and for one moment he wondered if she had forgotten that this was a trial – was she going to actually kill him –

He managed to get his fingers onto his tome.

Then he heard, incredibly, a cry of real pain from Vidofnir.

He rolled onto his back, still barely able to breathe, tome in his hand.

Noir was clinging to the dragon, claws scrabbling, jaws clenched tightly on the place where wing met shoulder. Vidofnir screeched again, cursing.

Alphinaud's spell slammed into her, driving her back a few steps.

She writhed, screaming once more, and then she flung herself down and rolled.

She was not coming towards him, but Alphinaud cried out to his carbuncle. Noir, stubborn and angry, did not heed his warning, and then Vidofnir was on her back for an instant

When she rolled to her feet, Noir lay still on the grass, tail feebly twitching.

Alphinaud shouted. His attack wasn't even a proper spell – he simply formed his aether into a massive fist of force and slammed it down on Vidofnir's back.

The dragon grunted in pain, but her advance did not slow.

Alphinaud ran between her feet.

She was surprised enough by his unorthodox move that she remained still long enough for him to sprint to Noir. He went to one knee beside the carbuncle, even as she spun in place and prepared to strike them both down.

He wrapped his aether around himself, making a tight shield as close to his body as he could, and gathered Noir to him, putting his tome between the carbuncle and the oncoming dragon. He squeezed his eyes shut. His aether was nearly expended, his endurance reaching its limits. There was nothing more he could do in this moment. If he survived her next attack, he would cry mercy, and hope she would listen.

But the blow never came.

His eyes popped open after a few breaths, and he looked up cautiously.

Vidofnir's snout was inches away, just outside his shield. Her eyes were calm, no sign of battle frenzy in their ruby glitter. She folded her wings, and chuckled.

“Well fought, young one. Well fought. Come. We shall return to my sire.”


	13. Elegant Creatures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alphinaud Leveilleur has had too much to drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place around the same time as Chapter 65 of "Aren't You Cold"

He staggered back to the bed. His stomach was still rebelling, but it was to empty for further retching. Thank the Twelve for small favors. He collapsed onto the mattress, disturbing the sketchbook he had tossed aside earlier in the evening. He grimaced and turned his face away so that he would not stare at the page, and the sketch of Berylla in a moment of laughter. It felt too much like the sketch was laughing at him, and he was already quite miserable enough without that.

His misery was not simply born of taking too much wine, either. His heart ached as much as his head. Both of them caused by his own actions. The haze of pain drove sensible thought from his head, leaving him only with unhappy memories.

He tried to remonstrate with himself. This morning he had been rejected, yes. And it hurt. But it was hardly the first time he had been hurt emotionally. The daughters of the Sharlayan elite had wounded him far more cruelly than Berylla had...

Even now he could almost hear their mocking laughter.

Camille’s words still stung him, even five years later. “Leveilleur is a good catch, however, and so easy to handle. Give him a new book and a peck on the cheek, and he shan’t notice your spending...or your lovers.”

Gods, how that had hurt. Hearing her speak of him so coldly, with such casual cruelty, had broken his heart.

He slipped into dreaming, into memory.

*

The late afternoon sunlight fell through the leaves of the water-oaks, and dappled the paving stones, and the four young ladies gossiping in the middle of the Studium’s pleasure garden. Girls who had flirted with him, girls that he had tried, so hard, to please.

They stood there, lovely as always in their fashionable frocks, framed by the climbing roses. They mocked him, laughing with each other over their “favorite bantam.” They did not see him standing just beyond the rose arbor. He could not make his feet move, as if frozen to the spot. Their words made it clear that they had no liking for him, and never had; that they played at affection, nothing more.

He ran from the garden. They never even noticed him.

He was not a fool. He had always known that most of the marriages among his peers, in the highest social circles of Sharlayan, were hardly made for love. They were alliances, transactions, calculated and precisely plotted; weddings were performed with all the logistics and planning of a small war.

He had wanted so badly to believe that these young ladies - the blossoms of Sharlayan, the most beautiful girls in the Studium - oh, how he had _wanted to believe_ that they saw in him some small merit. Not just his money, his family’s name and standing...something of _himself_ , of Alphinaud the person.

But he understood, all too bitterly now, that he had never been more to them than an easy target. They saw themselves as the hunters, and him - no, _all_ the young men of their set - as the prey.

He reached his room, and shut the door. His art things were laid out - he had in fact been about to present Camille with a fine watercolor of herself, standing in the very garden where she was even now laughing at him. He gazed at the paper in his hands blankly for an instant, then ripped it in half and threw it to the floor.

He would no longer play the role of love-struck fool for them.

He did not spoil his paints, or destroy any of his tools. But he took up the palette knife and the canvas.

Another painting, though this one would have been a portrait of Sephora. His lip curled as he recalled how she had called him a bantam, as if he were a mere pet. The knife made a snarling sound as he cut the canvas in ragged lines. He tossed the ruined painting aside.

Let them preen and pose, let them coo, let them cry.

He would be polite. He would not call them the names that boiled up in the back of his head.

Next, the sketches, carefully stacked on his table. He took his time, only destroying those sketches that had been intended as gifts, and those drawn as he had day-dreamed like a fool. But those that he destroyed, he tore into pieces no bigger than a finger’s width. The pieces fluttered to the floor, and he paid no heed to the mess.

He would _never_ agree to take any of them to wife. He would not so much as give them hope of it. Destruction accomplished, his room now resembling somewhat the state of his emotions, he collapsed onto his bed, and fought the urge to cry.

Alisaie found him, some hours later, when he had missed supper and evening study hour. She took a long look at his room, at the shredded sketches and the torn canvas in the corner where it had fallen when he had done with it.

He lay on his bed, face down, eyes red.

“Which one of them was it?” his sister asked.

“Does it matter?” His voice was dull.

“It does to me. I’d like to talk to her.”

“You will not lay a finger on _anyone_ , Alisaie. I forbid it.” He sat up, and glared at her. “Promise me.”

She huffed, and crossed her arms. Her braid bounced as she shook her head. “You are too soft, brother. But fine. I promise. I shall not beat the little bitch as she deserves. I insist, however, that you tell me who she is.”

He eyed her, suspicious. He knew how twisty Alisaie’s mind could be. But abruptly he was too tired to care. “It was not any particular girl,” he answered. “I merely overheard some talk that...enlightened me.” He saw Alisaie’s eyes flash and grudgingly added, “Camille Poirier. Sephora Durainde. Margaux Sauveterre.”

“Ah. _Those_ three.” For a moment Alisaie’s hands tightened into fists. Then she took a long breath, and very deliberately lowered her arms, and shook out her hands, as if the motion would shake off her anger.

She fixed her brother with a milder stare. “You need to eat. People were asking after you in the study group, as well.”

“I am under the weather,” he answered shortly, flopping back down onto his bed. “Sick in heart, though I suppose I cannot claim that as a reason to just...stay in here for a day or so.”

Alisaie snorted. “You’ve been reading too many plays again. Melodrama does not suit you, brother.”

But she sat on the edge of his bed and set her hand over his, tangling their fingers together. She did not speak, and neither did he. Both of them pretended there were no tears running down his cheeks, until at last he turned on his side and gave her fingers one last squeeze.

“I believe I shall sleep,” he told her. “I have an early class tomorrow.”

“I will see you at breakfast, then.”

She leaned down, and rested her forehead against his for a moment, before taking her leave.

*

He opened his eyes. Alisaie sat on the bed beside him, her hand over his.

He groaned, very softly. His head ached _ferociously_. He spoke in a whisper, forming the words with exaggerated care. “What...are you...doing in here?”

“You were very, very drunk, brother mine.” Alisaie was not smiling. “What do you remember?”

His face burned. “Nothing.” He clamped his mouth shut, wincing as his guts roiled. He had been an idiot, yesterday. More than once.

He had no intention of telling Alisaie of his mistake of yesterday morning. They were no longer children. Discussing his tangled feelings for Berylla, and his grave error in acting on them... No. It was far too private a matter to share, even with his twin.

His sister eyed him as he lay there silently, and then sighed. “Come on, Alphinaud. Let's get you cleaned up. We have a Council meeting this morning, and it will not do for you to appear looking like you slept in your clothes.”

Exhausted and miserable, he let her order him about. The cold shower did more to revive him than the black coffee Alisaie pressed into his hands after, but he did not comment. He bent his focus on appearing outwardly fine. She was right. They had a Council meeting to attend, and far more important matters than a fool's bruised pride.


	14. Never Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alphinaud bumps into Alisaie in Gridania, and she has something on her mind.

Alphinaud's plan was coming together very nicely.

He stepped out into the early evening air, smiling. The paperwork was finally done. All of his recruits were assembled, and he even had jobs lined up for the Braves already. Finances were still a worry – but they were a worry he could put off for a day or two. Tonight, he could relax.

“Well, well, and why do you look so smug, brother dearest?”

He turned his head and grinned widely. “Alisaie! I did not know you were in Gridania.”

“Just arrived,” she shrugged. Her traveling clothes were a bit dusty, and she was carrying a sizable leather satchel, but she was smiling right back at him. “I've only to hand over this parcel, and my job is done for tonight. Stay a moment?”

“Gladly,” he nodded. She gave him one more smile and headed inside the Twin Adders' headquarters.

He went to stand near a lamp post, waiting patiently as she spoke with the Serpent Commander. The parcel changed hands, some papers were signed, and then she was striding out again. As soon as she was near enough, Alphinaud said, “Let me treat you to a meal, if you've time.”

“I do have time,” she nodded, “And I believe I shall.”

While Gridania was not known for its cuisine quite the way Limsa Lominsa was, there were still plenty of cafes, taverns, and other such establishments. Alphinaud had sampled quite a few of them, and knew just where to take his sister.

Massad's was a small place, but the atmosphere of the dining room was quiet, and there were booths set up in such a way as to give little islands of privacy around the space. The cooking here centered around an ever-changing round of casserole type dishes, as the eponymous owner had begun his career as a baker to a Thavnairian merchant-prince. This naturally meant that excellent bread also accompanied any meal: the bread was why Alphinaud liked this place so much.

The casserole of lamb and vegetables and Thavnairian grains was excellent, but Alphinaud could not help but notice that Alisaie seemed distracted, as she had once before when they had passed an evening in Wineport. She was fine so long as he kept up the conversation – but in the lapses, her eyes seemed to look inward, and she did not seem to like what she saw.

Alphinaud surprised his sister with the _second_ menu offered here. He handed the hand-sized paper across the table to her with a small flourish.

“Cookies,” he told her.

“What?” Her eyes sparkled a bit as she scanned the menu, and then her lips pursed while she debated just which cookies to order. Alphinaud sat back, well pleased.

Finally she chose something involving almonds and raisins; they were presently both nibbling on the delicate cookies, though Alphinaud wisely only took two from the plate. He did not mind the uneven split of the portions, however. One cookie less for him was a few smiles more from his sister, and that was a good trade in his opinion. He had not seen her in quite some time – not since the end of their foray into the ruins of Dalamud. She had written to him only once in these past months.

But she was his twin, and he did not need a letter to know that something had happened – something that had caused her concern, if not pain. Something that she needed to talk about...

Before he could ask, she looked up from the last cookie, and said, “Not here. I know what is one your mind, brother, but please...not in public.”

He raised his eyebrows, but nodded without speaking. He beckoned the server, to make certain their bill was settled, as she finished eating.

Then, the two of them got up, and walked out into the fragrant night.

As they walked into the Canopy, a pair of drunken fellows were making their way out, leaning against each other and talking quite loudly as they meandered towards the gates.

“I'm tellin' ya, cousin. It's them damn rains. Every stinkin' year, that road gets worse.”

“Oh, aye. When are they gonna build us a _proper_ road – oi, don't you dare – ”

Alphinaud turned his face away as he heard one of them sick up.

He started to speak, but the look on Alisaie's face stopped his words in his throat.

Her eyes were narrowed and her mouth had tightened. He knew that look – distant, cold, almost hateful.

His sister was on the edge of tears.

He let her alone, until they had reached the door of her inn room. He set his hand over hers as she reached for the handle.

“Alisaie. Please, tell me.”

“Inside.” Her voice was like a wire drawn too tight.

The room was pleasant enough, but Alphinaud could not have cared if the floor were dirt and the bed nothing but a hummock of hay. He set his hand on his sister's shoulder the moment she closed the door.

“Tell me what's wrong, Alisaie.”

She stood, head bent, and for a long moment she was silent. “After I struck out on my own...”

She told him of a young woman – Emery, a merchant – whose caravan had needed a guard, and so Alisaie had come to serve as such for a time. She told him, in the driest possible manner, of stops made and the utter lack of challenging foes.

“When you visited me at Wineport, Emery and her group were staying in Costa del Sol.”

“And you did not introduce me?” He spoke lightly, his hand making small circles on her shoulder.

She snorted, and her mouth pulled into a brief upward curve. “I wasn't sure how you would react, to be honest.” The strained smile faded. “I didn't know just how much I cared about her.”

He watched her struggle for words, and stayed silent. Her eyes focused on the floor, and her voice grew softer, more hesitant.

“After Bahamut...after everything, I was with them again, out in Thanalan. We had made a stop at the Silver Bazaar. The coast road from there is...risky in the best of weather. I don't think anyone realized how close to winter it was, or maybe the rains were early. The rains...the road...”

She shivered and fell silent. Alphinaud guided her over to her bed, convincing her to sit down, and sitting beside her. She leaned against him, as if she were very tired, and her voice was only a whisper. “I didn't even know, until after the storm. She was just...”

She covered her face with her hands.

“Just...gone.” Her voice cracked. “I never told her...I didn't – s-say...”

He wrapped her in his arms as she began to cry.

He did not try to comfort her with words. He knew no words would suffice, not for this pain.

So he did what he could do. He comforted her with his presence, and when her tears were spent, he sat with her until she slept. He understood what she had not said: that she needed someone with her, that she could not, for now, stand to be alone.

He wondered how much she had struggled with nightmares, alone on the road as she had been.

He stayed awake, just watching over her, occasionally petting her hair. Simply _being there_. He did not sleep, himself; he could get a nap before he returned to the Toll, and he would be fine.

It was dawn when she stirred again. Alphinaud still sat on the bed, patient, waiting.

“All night?” she mumbled, not opening her eyes. Her hand reached for his.

“Of course.” He folded her fingers in his own, pressing reassurance.

Sleepy and completely unguarded, she smiled. “Best brother. Thank you.”

Alphinaud just held her hand as she turned on her side and dozed a little longer.


	15. Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alphinaud Leveilleur had such hopes for the Crystal Braves...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coincides with chapter 25 of "Aren't You Cold"

His Crystal Braves. How glorious he had hoped they would be. How thoroughly they had been brought low. How foolish he had been, so full of arrogance, so blind to what was truly going on around him... He knew there was no way to measure how the loyal among them had suffered.

Yet a handful had remained, loyal, beyond their oaths and all expectation.

Those loyal Braves had made their way to Revenant's Toll. F'lhaminn and Tataru had arranged for the refurbishment of the Rising Stones. From Tataru's reports most of the work had involved replenishing supplies; not much had been actually damaged. The Scions' coffers had been safe from the start – being not housed within the Rising Stones in the first place – so while a little money had been stolen, it was a mere pittance. Most miraculous of all, none of the citizens of the Toll held any ill feelings towards the Braves or the Scions; he had Lady Yugiri to thank for that, he suspected.

And now...they were waiting for him.

He was very glad of Berylla's presence when they arrived. He braced himself before the door to the Rising Stones. He must be ready for their questions, their recriminations. They had every right to be angry and disillusioned with him. He had failed them most grievously.

But instead –

Riol finished speaking and Alphinaud could only stare. His eyes were stinging.

He did not deserve such friends.

But when the rest headed off to collect mugs and glasses and bottles, in a knot of happy chaos, Berylla stepped away.

“You're not joining...?” he asked her.

“I won't be much fun.” Her strained smile made him want to reach for her. “I need to be alone.”

He recalled how she had twitched every time they visited the Waking Sands; her eyes had scanned the rooms as if she expected the shadows to attack her. She had murmured that there were ghosts there, for her.

He had not been there the day of the raid. He had not seen the bodies or the blood... But he understood.

He saw the same look in her eyes now, and understood that there were ghosts here, too.

He stayed with Riol and the others for a single drink, then excused himself. “I will return shortly,” he promised, and headed out towards the stable.

After all, he could not well let Berylla leave, when he had one more thing to say.

Berylla was still there, saddling her bird. She looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

“Berylla, I – ”

“Shouldn't you be inside?”

“They will wait – I needed to tell you...”

“Tell me what?” She straightened from tightening the girth straps and faced him.

He flung his arms around her and pressed close, shaking with emotion. She hugged him tight, and soothed his back. All he could manage was a whisper. “Thank you.”

He felt her press her lips to the top of his head. “Whatever for?”

“For – for...too many things to enumerate.” There was so much he wanted to say. So much he did not know _how_ to say. So much he wasn't sure she would be willing to hear.

He forced himself to let her go, and scrubbed the moisture from his cheeks. He offered her a smile.

She leaned down and pressed a small kiss to his cheek.

Then, she swung up into her saddle. He looked up at her and said only, “Safe travels, Berylla.”

She smiled at him, and then she was gone.

He walked back to the Stones, to rejoin his – no, no longer his Braves. His _friends_.

He would find a way to be worthy of them. Somehow.


	16. Scarlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red is Alisaie's favorite color.

Autumn in Sharlayan was nearly synonymous with the Exposition. The same week that the leaves began to turn, spreading fiery color throughout the white city, the various Guilds held a massive exhibition showcasing the city's best work. Most guilds worked throughout the year towards this single week; apprentices dreaded it; even the Studium and the Conservatory took part. Because the Exposition included the guilds responsible for sartorial adornments, many of the city's wealthy used the occasion as an opportunity to procure new clothing. Certainly Lady Leveilleur had done so, most every year since the family had returned to the island. Attending the Exposition and arranging for fittings – for herself, her children, and sometimes even her husband – occupied a good deal of her attention.

In past years, the twins had accepted the choices made for them in the way of clothing. The finely crafted outfits were meant for display, and Lady Leveilleur never spoke to them about what clothing they wore in more private settings. Fortunately the Studium had a uniform for its students, and they were spared some few fittings on that account.

Party clothes, on the other hand, demanded at least one fitting, an event that the children endured but did not enjoy. But this year was different. This year, their thirteenth, had been particularly tempestuous for the Leveilleur household.

Alisaie had always had a mind of her own. This year, she was determined to assert herself, no matter how upset it made her mother. The two of them had clashed, every time the twins were home from the Studium on break, and each argument had sent Lady Leveilleur to her bed for the evening.

Every member of the house staff had dreaded the Exposition this year.

Their fears were justified.

“I don't want to wear _this_ , either.” Alisaie cast the midnight blue blouse on the floor, among all the other clothing she had tossed aside.

“Why not, Alisaie?”

“Because,” Alisaie stamped her foot, “it's just like Alphinaud's. _Boring!_ ”

Lady Leveilleur stared her daughter down, but Alisaie did not back off. Their eyes met, violet to blue-gray, and the air seemed to crackle between them. Alphinaud's eyes traveled between the two, slightly wide as he waited to see who would prevail.

The three of them were in one of the smaller “receiving rooms” of the manor house – a space that could be quickly altered to host a small party for tea, or a handful of important visitors, or as now, a tailor's racks and dress forms and other such paraphernalia. Today was to have been a day for the twins to ostensibly select their clothing for the winter festival season. But Alisaie had so far rejected every offering, with increasing vehemence.

The tailor and her assistant were fortunately, to Alphinaud's mind, not present.

“Well. What would you prefer, then?” Lady Leveilleur's tone was frigid.

“Red.”

The single word hung in the air. Defiance was written in Alisaie's posture as much as her mulish expression.

Their mother blinked rapidly for a moment, completely nonplussed.

“You have never spoken of a liking for red before...”

“ _You've_ never really asked.” Alisaie's chin lifted. “So I'm saying it now. I want a red gown this year.”

“Dear heart, you will clash dreadfully with...” Mother's eyes flicked to Alphinaud and he saw her alter her phrasing, “With most of our home, at the very least.”

“Good!”

“Will you not consider some other hue?”

“No, I will not consider another hue. Not pink, not rose, not wine – and definitely not _blue_.”

“Come now, Alisaie,” Lady Leveilleur's mouth tightened in disapproval. “Be reasonable...”

Alisaie did not often throw tantrums as such. She wheedled and whined on occasion, but not this time. She practically shouted in their mother's face, hands clenched into fists, eyes blazing.

“ _ **No!**_ _I want red!!_ ”

Mother set one hand to her forehead, wincing. Without a word, she stood and left the room.

The door closed, and silence descended again.

Alphinaud's eyes were on his sister.

“Do you really think my clothes are boring?”

Alisaie scoffed. “Don't be ridiculous. They're fine. For you.”

He widened his eyes at her. “ _I'm_ boring?”

Alisaie drew in a breath, concerned for an instant before she caught the glitter of humor in her brother's gaze. “Oh!” She blew her breath out, relaxing just a little. “You are the most impossible...”

“You really ought not to upset Mother so.” Alphinaud began gathering the scattered clothing items, placing them on the rolling wooden rack and shelves on which they had originally hung.

“Bah.” Alisaie helped him, her expression still irritated. “She's never happy with us anyway, except when we let her smother us completely. Maybe if I'm _clashing_ ,” she nearly snarled the word, “she won't bother lecturing us for a change.”

“When _did_ you start liking red?” he asked her curiously. “You didn't say anything to me either.”

“This morning.” She met his gaze with a deadpan expression.

For an instant he stared at her, and then he began to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus chapter this week!


	17. Starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A most memorable Starlight season...

The winter season, for many children, was a favorite time of year. The month-long Starlight Festival was a whirl of colors, of light, of parties and music and laughter, and gifts. It was a time to see family, to be cooed over by grandparents and aunts and uncles; a time for treats and favorite foods and other little signs of affection and love.

Winter, and especially Starlight, was not favored so by the Leveilleur twins.

For them, the festival meant obligation after obligation – paraded about at every party, but not to be cooed over. Instead they each were expected to perform their separate, specific roles. And _perform_ was a most accurate word: Lady Leveilleur had firm ideas as to how young prodigies ought to behave, especially when being displayed to the most powerful people in Sharlayan. Alphinaud's role was to show off his learning, and to carry on meticulously polite conversations with men five times his age. Alisaie on the other hand was expected to imitate the accomplishments of her mother's youth – namely in the realm of music. Lady Leveilleur had been somewhat known for her harp playing, before she had married. Alisaie therefore must also play harp, _and_ lute, _and_ piano, to the same standard.

For a long time, neither of them had minded. It was simpler to obey, simpler to play their parts in their mother's little shows. But since beginning their studies away from the house, it seemed that their mother's demands had grown, not eased off. Both of them were quite frustrated, but Alisaie was the one whose patience was nearing its end.

A week ago, at the very start of this winter's social season, Lady Leveilleur had insisted that Alisaie give a full recital, as if she had been keeping up with her music practice on top of all her other studies.

Alisaie had done so, and had performed credibly enough, but she was still fuming over it. Most especially because afterwards, she had for the first time encountered talk of suitors, of wooing, of marriage.

She had escaped from that event, narrowly avoiding an incident. Only Alphinaud was aware of how furious she was with their mother, with the situation in general.

Her anger had been brewing for months. This autumn, she had screamed at their mother over clothing choices. But none of their servants had seen that incident. All anyone knew was that Lady Leveilleur had taken to her bed for two days in a row.

Now, the biggest social event of the season was upon them – the largest party in the entirety of Sharlayan, an event so elaborate that the preparations had taken two full weeks. They would be expected to, once more, perform.

Alisaie was ready to do battle with their mother over the matter. Alphinaud, for his part, simply worried that there would be real violence before all was said and done. He had, however, been unable to fathom any way to talk to their mother reasonably. Even the mildest of disagreements now sent Lady Leveilleur into a small fainting spell. He was at a complete loss.

Alisaie stood at the window of her brother's room, leaning on the windowsill, glowering out at the city. Alphinaud sat in his favorite chair, reading.

“I hate winter.”

“I know.”

“It's all so _stupid_.”

“I know.”

“Why must we be put on display, every year? Father has no reason to show us off, and I certainly have no intention of ever becoming merely a _wife._ ” She spat the word like a curse. “I refuse to be shackled to some doddering old _fool_ five times my age.” She snarled at her own reflection. “All of this nonsense is an utter waste of my time!”

“I know.”

She rounded on him. “Are you even _listening_ , Alphinaud?!”

“I am listening.” He turned a page, gazing at the illustration there, of some arcane graph or formula. “I simply have nothing to say.”

“You don't like this any more than I do.” She crossed her arms. “Why aren't you angry?”

“You are quite angry enough for us both,” he answered, and turned another page. “What would you have me do, Alisaie? You know that I have made my own attempts to reason with Mother. You know that I had no success.” He sighed, and set the book down to look at her. “Truly, Alisaie, perhaps it would be better to simply comply one more time, instead of provoking another confrontation.” He crossed his arms. “You got that scarlet gown you wanted. Have you not fought enough battles, caused our mother enough distress, for one year?”

She set her jaw. “No.”

That very evening, immediately following their supper, Alisaie launched her attack. She stood in front of their mother in the family sitting room, head high, and with three words, threw down the gauntlet.

Lady Leveilleur stared at her as if her child had gone insane. “What do you mean, you're not going?”

“Every year you force us to perform for your guests. Well, not this year. I refuse.”

“You cannot _refuse_. You are my daughter, and you will do as you are told.” Lady Leveilleur's voice was iron, her expression a glacier.

Alisaie's temper exploded.

“You treat us both like toys that you can manipulate however you like, and I have had enough of it, do you hear me, Mother?”

“How dare you take such a tone with me!”

“How dare I? How dare _you!_ I am not your damned puppet, I'm not your _dog_ , stop acting as if I have no mind and no will of my own! That goes for Alphinaud too!”

“You are very close to being punished, Alisaie – ”

“ _Fine!_ Punish me! Threaten me all you like! I don't care if you bloody _beat_ me! I am not going to be your little dancing doll this year, Mother, or ever again! I am who I am, and if you can't love me _as_ I am, then I'll bloody damn well leave!”

Lady Leveilleur cried out, and sank onto the couch beside her, clutching her head.

“Alisaie!” Their father rushed to his wife's side. “Look at what you've done. Apologize, young lady!”

“I won't!” Alisaie's voice was shrill now. Tears spangled her cheeks. “I refuse to feel guilty because _you_ can't face the truth of what you're doing to us, Mother! Nothing we do is good enough, nothing we say is right, unless we act like swiving little wind-up dolls for you!”

“Alisaie! Be silent, this instant!”

She snapped her mouth shut.

All around the room, their servants stared wide eyed at the tableau – Forchelnaut Leveilleur had not raised his voice in such a manner in years, not since his last argument with his father.

Alphinaud's eyes were wide as well. He had been edging towards the door to the hallway throughout most of the shouting.

“You are sequestered, young lady.” Their father's voice shook. “To think that any child of mine would be so thankless, so hateful, and so crude. I am deeply disappointed in you.”

“Aren't you always disappointed in us, Father?” Alisaie's voice was quieter, but even the servants flinched at the pain in her words. “You're as bad as she is. We will never be enough for either of you, will we?” She swiped at her eyes. “Do you even love us anymore?”

But she did not wait for a reply. Instead, she turned on her heel and ran from the room. Alphinaud followed her, without a word.

The door did not shut behind them. When Lady Leveilleur began to weep, both children could hear her quite clearly.

“Well, now you've done the thing quite thoroughly,” Alphinaud said, leaning up against his door. Alisaie did not reply. He watched his sister pacing for a time, and sighed.

“By now, I expect Mother is in bed. Father should be along any minute – ”

There was a tap on the door. Alphinaud straightened and opened it.

Forchelnaut stepped inside, as Alisaie stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides and her eyes fairly blazed. She looked ready to fist fight her father.

“Your mother is abed,” he began, then stopped, pressing his lips together tightly. After a long breath, he spoke again. “Your behavior wants mending, Alisaie.”

“Which part of it, Father? The thinking for myself, or the failing to cosset Mother in her delusions?”

Air hissed through his teeth as he grimaced at her. “Kindly set aside your righteous indignation and _listen_ to me, daughter. No one is here to see your outrageous display of ill temper, and I assure you, hot words will do nothing to move me on this matter.”

“Is there to be discussion, then, Father?” Alphinaud stepped around the older man. “Or is this to be a lecture?”

His tone was polite, but his expression was not conciliatory. He took up a position beside Alisaie, their shoulders almost touching.

Forchelnaut regarded the two of them with a stern frown. Two pairs of blue eyes met his own, unwavering. After a tense minute of silence, the elder Leveilleur was the first to look away. His voice was bitter.

“Lecturing, as I know full well, will have less than no effect on the two of you. You are far beyond parental platitudes and disciplinary ultimatums. Both of you can leave this house and make your own way in the world, this very night.”

Alisaie's jaw dropped. Alphinaud crossed his arms.

“Are you telling us that we must do so?”

“Not yet.” Forchelnaut sighed, and shook his head. “Please, both of you, sit down.”

The older man took the wing chair where Alphinaud usually read; the twins sat on the end of Alphinaud's bed, expressions guarded.

Forchelnaut took off his spectacles, and polished them on a white handkerchief, then replaced them on his nose. He fixed his offspring with a tired look.

“Before all else, I wish you to know: your mother and I love you, both of you, very much. You are our only children, and we have ever treasured you. Pray do not hurt us by accusing us otherwise.” He took a long breath. “I know my father heaped attention upon you, and your mother and I were unable to do the same. But it was never for lack of affection, only for lack of time.”

He shook his head. “I must also speak to you more honestly about your mother's condition.”

Alphinaud glanced at Alisaie, frowning for an instant.

“I have kept the truth from you, and that was, I see now, wrong of me.” He rotated his signet ring around his forefinger, a quarter turn at a time. “Your mother is truly ill, a disease of the spirit and the mind, and it is not to be mended by any except perhaps the gods. It is this illness which sends her to her bed so frequently. The disease was not caused by your behavior directly.” He fixed Alisaie with a hard look. “However, your behavior can, and has, triggered episodes of greater distress. She is a fragile spirit now, Alisaie. Be mindful of her.”

Alisaie crossed her arms and looked away. “I knew there was something wrong,” she said. “But I shall not back down on this, Father. Whether it is because of her illness or not, she is strangling us. We cannot live forever as her babies.”

“No, you cannot. But you can find ways to compromise,” Forchelnaut told her. “You need not destroy her to get what you want.”

Alisaie flinched. “I never intended – ”

“I believe that,” he said gently. “But tonight, you caused her great pain.”

Alisaie bit her lip and did not answer.

Alphinaud set his hand on his sister's shoulder. “We do love her, as we love you, Father. Of course we wish no harm upon her. But if every confrontation inevitably results in such episodes, such distress, we cannot well discuss these matters with her. So then how are we to compromise? Have you suggestions?”

“Ever the negotiator,” Forchelnaut shook his head, smiling slightly. “I do, in fact, have one or two humble notions. Let us first begin with your obligations during this season, and future events...”

It was late when Forchelnaut left them alone at last. Alisaie yawned, her jaw popping, and flopped back on the bed. “Bloody hell,” she sighed.

“Go sleep on your own bed,” Alphinaud told her. She sat up and looked at him.

“Do you really think I was doing that much harm to her?”

He shook his head, sounding tired. “How should I know, Alisaie?”

Then he prodded her shoulder. “Go to your own room. Go on, shoo.”

“Shoo, he says,” she grumbled. “As if I were a flea.”

“No, you're a gadfly,” he retorted. “Aggressive and irritating.”

“You're welcome, by the way.” She stuck her tongue out at him as she rose.

“For what? Getting us both in trouble? Keeping us up all night?”

“You know for what, you loon.” She shoved at him a little.

He pushed back. “Right now, all I know is that I want to sleep.” He pointed at his door. “ _Good night_ , Alisaie.”

She humphed, and flounced out.

Alphinaud locked his door, and then leaned his forehead against it. His sigh was long and heartfelt and mostly silent. Wearily he went around the room, putting out lamps. The moon shone in through his windows, and in that dim illumination he shed his clothes and got into sleeping pants. He was too tired to bother with anything further, and crawled into his bed to flop face down onto his pillow.

He did know, of course, what his sister had meant. Her actions – outrageous, confrontational, rude, dramatic – had been far beyond anything he would have been willing to do to address their situation. He could not deny that her tantrum had been effective. It had forced their father to speak to them – and most importantly, to listen.

He bit his lip, remembering how heartbroken his mother had sounded as the two of them left the room this evening. While he was glad enough to be freed of obligations that had grown ever more onerous, he was not certain that the pain they had caused was worth the outcome.

Well, it was done, now. There was little point in regret. He would find some way to console their mother. Only on his own behalf, however. He was going to make Alisaie do her own apologizing, this time.

As he let sleep take him, his last thought was that perhaps the rest of Starlight season would be a tiny bit more enjoyable, after all.


	18. All that Glitters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alphinaud does not let mere rules stop him from following a line of investigation.

The gemology lab was one of Alphinaud's favorite places on campus. He had come here with his grandfather many times, even being allowed once or twice to help sort through newly arrived samples and specimens – he could never have laid a finger on any of the prepared stones, of course, but there was less need for caution with the raw materials that arrived in crates from places that had seemed so very exotic to his young eyes. Waymarks from Thavnair, Rabanastre, Hingashi, Ilsabard, Thanalan – all of them wildly ornamented and almost as colorful as their contents. Gemstones weighed rather more than aether crystals; the crates had been small and dense and he well recalled how he had struggled, at age eight, to tote a single box from crate to table.

Such pleasant memories wafted about him, as if carried on the very scent of the laboratory. The tang of polishing agent, the hint of dust, the oddly sour odors of solvent and fixative. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the large windows, giving a welcome touch of warmth to the room. It was very, very quiet. Most of his compeers were attending a musical evening – and thus were in their dorms making their preparations to see and be seen. This meant Alphinaud had the lab almost completely to himself.

The loudest sound in the room just now was the scratch of pencil upon paper, as he made minute adjustments and wrote down observations. He perched on the tall stool, peering into the aetheric refractometer, then easing back to make another notation.

“How long have you been at this, young Leveilleur?”

“Only six hours,” Alphinaud answered absently. “However, I think I may be nearly finished, Professor.”

“All day? My boy, you'll be blind before you're twenty if you don't pace yourself.”

Alphinaud laughed quietly and sat up straight, setting down his pencil and stretching with care. “I assure you, Professor Jasper, I am fine.”

Professor Jasper – none of the students knew his real name – had been teaching gemology and the finer points of the aetheric properties of various minerals for decades now. He had held his position as primary editor of the Crystalline Cohort (the preeminent peer-reviewed journal for such studies) for twenty years. It was said that he had been bald for all that time, but that his eyebrows had grown bushier and whiter, the only outward indication of his advanced age.

He was no longer quite as spry as he used to be – according to _him_. To his students, most especially the first-years, he was a boundless fount of energy and mild humor. His lectures were peppered with puns, fun facts, and absurd anecdotes. He was a great favorite among most of those pursuing the Studium degree in arcanima, and there were rumors every year that he might at last take over the position of academic advisor.

He still led classes out into the field twice a year, insisting that even the (admittedly sparse) samples to be gleamed from the limestone quarries of the island served as valuable hands on training in the practical application of the theories his lectures covered.

Alphinaud was currently taking classes with the Professor, in fact – delving into the more theoretical facets of the creation of carbuncles.

The Lalafellin professor climbed up on the stool beside Alphinaud's and leaned his hands on the lab bench, eyeing the page of notes. “These are quite the unusual specimens you are examining, young man. What mischief might you be planning?”

“No mischief at all,” Alphinaud smiled. “I had noticed, however, that our standard texts are not very comprehensive in their investigation of available stones.”

“They are student texts, after all,” Professor Jasper smiled. “I notice you are not investigating merely _stones_ , my boy.” He gestured to the samples arranged in a neat row to the right of the refractometer: a pearl, a sliver of ivory, a lump of amber, and a small, uncut opal. To Alphinaud's left, a small but well formed quartz prism waited; slotted into the refractometer was a thumb-length piece of obsidian.

Alphinaud's ears went just a bit pink at the tips. “No, sir. I thought I might start with some of the substances available to me personally...”

“Ah, is that why pearls, then.” The diminutive old man cocked his head. “Obsidian?”

“My grandfather left me some interesting specimens,” Alphinaud admitted. “I have long been fascinated by it.”

“Hmm.” The professor's eyebrows knit. “Young man, are you seriously contemplating creating a carbuncle from volcanic glass?”

Alphinaud was very quiet for a moment, and Professor Jasper's eyes fixed on the young scholar, a stern frown forming on his normally cheerful face.

Alphinaud almost sounded sullen. “It worked. For a little while.”

“Experimenting with carbuncles is discouraged for very good reasons, young Leveilleur.”

“I took all the necessary precautions,” Alphinaud protested. “I made certain to have someone supervising me, as well.”

“Who?”

The young Elezen looked away for a moment, then crossed his arms. “Moenbryda.”

Professor Jasper made a strangled sound of outrage. “Alphinaud!”

“Just because summoning is not her usual area of study – ”

The Lalafellin professor slapped one hand on the table. “She is the most _reckless_ graduate student on the entire island, Alphinaud! You are quite fortunate to have all your limbs intact!”

“There was no danger,” Alphinaud insisted stubbornly. “Nothing exploded or even overheated...”

“I hear a hesitation, Leveilleur.” The Professor crossed his own arms. “What did happen, pray tell?”

Alphinaud sighed, and let his hands fall to rest on his legs. “The carbuncle disintegrated within less than two minutes.”

“Humph. You were lucky. Using _any_ sort of glass could have resulted in quite a spectacular set of scars.” Professor Jasper glowered at his student for a moment more, then let out a somewhat exasperated sigh. “Well, what did you learn from your ill-advised experiment?”

“I had not sufficiently calculated the aspected aether ratios,” Alphinaud replied promptly. “The obsidian fractures in a conchoidal manner, and the undulations alter the flows enough to destabilize the construct.”

Professor Jasper pursed his lips. “Such variations do not lend themselves to any sort of calculations, you do realize this?”

“I do.” Alphinaud's chin lifted. “I succeeded in part by continuously recalculating as I went.”

“Well that, my boy, is doing it the hard way.” The Professor paused, and cleared his throat. “I truly ought to forbid you from attempting any of this, you know. But...I know you, you're as bad as your grandfather ever was, you would find some way to do it anyway. At least if I take you in hand, I can safeguard you personally. You are not to work on this independently any further, do you understand?” The moment Alphinaud nodded, Jasper harrumphed. “A great inconvenience, I'll have you know, hosting young hotheads in my home on alternating weekends so that they do not _blow themselves up_.”

Alphinaud's eyes lit. “Professor, I – ”

“Don't thank me.” The Professor shook his finger at the young scholar. “You'll be working harder than ever you have in my classroom, Leveilleur. I shan't go easy on you.”

“Thank you, sir! I will do my utmost not to disappoint you.”

“For the moment, do your utmost to put everything away and tidy the lab before you lock up. And mind what I said. No further experimentation on your own!”

“Yes sir!”


	19. A Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alphinaud was not ready for this.

Alphinaud had never felt anything like the sensations that enveloped him – fire and ice and levin running through his veins all at once, tumbled about as if in a whirlwind yet somehow simultaneously crushed beneath a great weight, and worst of all a feeling of being submerged in an endless black sea – he gasped – and then it was over.

He opened watering eyes and blinked rapidly. Whatever had just happened, surely there was still danger, he could not drop his guard –

Their foes stood dumbfounded, weapons lowered, staring around them with blank expressions.

His allies likewise stood staring about them – except for Urianger, and Berylla.

He cast his gaze around them and started as he realized what he was seeing – and where they were.

This had to be the aetherial sea. Pinpricks of light surrounded them, assembled in configurations wholly unlike the patterns of the night sky. A chiming sound permeated the air – or whatever was functioning as air. Below their feet, a circle of blue-white runes. He peered at it a moment and swallowed hard.

Sigils of power, runes, yes – and also Berylla's name, with additional symbols that he suddenly understood were not for his eyes to interpret. This was, very literally, her place in this world...a place sacred to her very soul.

His eyes flew up to look at her, but her face was set in the impassive mask of the Hero, and her eyes were fixed on the people facing them.

Before any of them could speak, Urianger called out – and was answered.

Alphinaud's sight wavered. He hadn't imagined the Antecedent could look so young. Why, her form seemed to be his own age! But she was as serene as ever, and her eyes glowed with a blue unlike anything of the waking world. Her voice was strangely resonant.

He knew he ought to feel awe, and wonder, and even perhaps some amount of humility – after all, how many had ever been held beneath the regard of the Mother Crystal this way?

But he did not feel any of those things. Only sadness, a grief so sharp he felt he must surely bleed out and die of it. He felt the hot tears on his face and didn't care. He listened to all that was said, but the full meaning of it washed over him, almost drowned out by the sobs that he fought to hold back.

As he struggled, Berylla's hand touched his. Her fingers tangled around his and she squeezed. He squeezed back – and a flood of new feelings inundated him. Grief like unto his own, and a bitter, bitter sense of shame and self-blame, and a weariness that made his bones ache.

But like stars in the blackness, he also felt how much comfort she took from their contact – and his breath left him in a rush as he felt also a low-burning desire that quickened his blood.

She...she _needed_ him?!

Exultation was brief – the rising wave of grief swept all thought aside for a long moment as Minfilia made her good-byes to them all.

But even as she lifted her hand and vanished, even as he felt himself falling away, back down – or out – into the real world...his nerves sang with that flicker of joy.

They stood on the sands, dazed and aching. He managed to organize himself enough to head back to the village. The grief still held him in a grip like ice. But beneath it, rising and falling like gentle waves on the shore, a growing giddy gladness, a chant in the back of his mind of _she wants me, she wants me, she wants me!_

But when she joined them at the village, he knew this wasn't the time to speak to her about it. She looked tired. No, not tired, exhausted. Her aether must have powered their remarkable visit to the aetherial sea. She needed rest, for now.

He resolved to speak with her as soon as he possibly could. Surely she could no longer deny her feelings, or his.


	20. The Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps not the best idea, Alphinaud...

Alphinaud paced his room at the Rising Stones. He knew Berylla had received his message. He knew she was on her way home. He didn't need to stand about in the plaza, hovering. But oh, how he wanted to do just that. His nerves were on fire with anticipation.

Only when it was very near to time for her arrival did he allow himself to walk – calmly – out into the town square. He lingered near the aetheryte, trying to look casual and not tense.

When he caught sight of her flaming red hair in the sun, his heart leaped into his throat for a moment and he had to compose himself. But his steps were quick as he approached her.

He all but dragged her up onto the heights, where they had spent time in the past. He knew it to be a quiet spot and one rarely noticed by others – private enough for what he wanted.

She regarded him with surprise, as she sat on the crate where he'd pushed her. Like this, her head was just a little lower than his own; she had to look up at him.

“What's going on, Alphinaud?”

“Where in the seven hells have you been?” he demanded, his voice low.

She blinked, seeming surprised. “I told you...I was going to rest, in Ishgard.”

“You left before Thancred returned from Zahar'ak.” He crossed his arms. “You never checked in with anyone at House Fortemps. I had to write a letter to them and hope they'd send it on to you somehow.”

“Well I'm here now. If you wanted me here sooner...”

“I did.”

He saw how she hesitated, how her gaze changed as she understood him. “Not the Scions, is what you're saying.”

He stepped closer, his hands going to her shoulders. He couldn't stop looking at her mouth, though he tried. “I need to talk to you.”

“About...what?”

“When we were in...that place. Speaking to Minfilia.” He looked into her eyes. “You touched me...you shared your emotions with me.”

He leaned in, slid his fingers into her wonderful hair, behind her head. Her beautiful eyes were wide as he set his lips against hers.

Her mouth opened for him, letting him in, and he took full advantage of it, tasting her, kissing her in the way he had dreamed of kissing her for days and days. Her hands were on his chest, and he could hear how her breaths came quick and light, little gasps, even as she shivered under his hands, his mouth. The scent of roses and chamomile rose from her hair, filling his head.

His other hand drifted up as he eased back a tiny bit, and his knuckles stroked her jaw. “Oh, Berylla,” he whispered. “How I've wanted to do this...”

“...no.” She pushed at him, and he moved back a little more, cupping her cheeks in both of his hands.

“I know you want me,” he murmured. “You reached for me, you _needed_ me, Berylla. Let me...” He stroked his thumbs across her cheekbones. “Let me be the one that makes you hum to yourself in empty hallways, Berylla. Let me love you...”

She shook her head, her eyes glistening. “We talked about this.” Her voice was hoarse. “I can't...do this. It's not _right_ , Alphinaud.”

“I'm not an innocent,” he insisted gently. “I'm not a child. And you don't really see me that way, I _know_ it.”

“I'm not debating you, damn it. I'm telling you _**no**_.”

He let go of her, and she pressed her back against the wall, pushing him further away. His body demanded that he pursue her, but the expressions chasing across her face made him stay still. She licked her lips, a _hungry_ motion, but her hands were knotting in her own hair, pulling hard. She only tugged on her hair when she was _most_ upset...

“Why?” She _did_ want him, he knew it, had felt it in their kiss. _She_ knew it – why was she refusing him? Hurt and frustration welled up inside of him, and his hands curled into fists at his sides. “Why are you denying how you feel?”

“Please don't make this harder than it already is.” Tears ran down her cheeks.

His stomach flipped over as he realized it. She had been in Ishgard, but _not_ at House Fortemps.

Jealousy scalded him, then turned his blood to ice. “Who is he, Berylla? Who is it that has so much of your heart, that you have no room for me?”

Even as he spoke, he knew they were the wrong words, but he could not help himself.

Her face contorted, anger igniting in her eyes. “No. Oh _hell_ no. You're not pulling that shit twice, Alphinaud.” She wrapped her arms around herself, a defensive gesture despite the aggression in her tone. “This is part of _why_ I'm saying no. Don't you _dare_ call it love, when you want to own me. You don't get to use my feelings as weapons against me. You don't get to ask me who I sleep with. That's not how love works.”

He turned away. She wasn't wrong, but it felt like insult atop injury. Bruised pride, jealousy like stinging nettles in his gut, and a strange desperate frustration – could he hold nothing of her for his own?

“So you'll give yourself to anyone but me?”

“Throw a tantrum if you want,” she rasped, “but at this point, yes. Anyone but you. Because _you_ aren't ready to be a man, damn you.” He heard her take a breath, heard the sob in her throat, the pain in her voice. “I promised that I would _never_ lie to you, Alphinaud. Hear me, and believe me. I won't say yes to you, not while you still see me as a prize to be won.”

His back stiffened. “Very well.”

Without saying another word, he stalked away. She began to cry. He heard her, though he doubted she realized it. The sound stabbed him to the heart, that he had caused those tears.

He strode through the Toll, then into the Rising Stones, passing Yda and his sister. Yda spoke to him, but he did not reply – did not even register her words. He simply kept walking until he was in his own, small room, the door firmly shut.

There, he sat down on the edge of his bed, and buried his head in his hands.

He had been so _sure_ that she would accept him.

How could he have been such a fool?

The memory of those green, green eyes filled with tears stung him once again.

She had wept after the Vault, and he had been too shocked to help her. Yet when _he_ had nearly fallen apart with worry for Estinien, she had been there for him.

In that strange place beyond the world, he had felt her desire for him. But her grief and her pain had been so much stronger. He should have tried to comfort her, not claim her.

 _I am not a prize to be won_.

He winced at the memory of her words. She was right. Worse, she had said it before, and he should have known better. Instead he had seen only what he wanted.

He had ignored what he knew of her, even what he loved about her. He had chosen to believe that his desire would be welcome, based solely on a feeling gleaned from her in a moment of weakness.

Selfish. Arrogant. Shameful.

He could not blame her for running to Ishgard. To Ser Aymeric.

He was certain of it, now. She had run to the lord commander's arms for comfort, receiving none from the Scions around her. They should have been there for her – _he_ should have been there, damn it. He had failed her – no, worse: he had hurt her.

_Anyone but you_.

How could he ever hope to mend this mistake?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for reading!


End file.
